Broken Dreams
by InMyEyes2014
Summary: A romance writer with a bad history of relationships, Emma Swan needs to finish her latest book. When her editor steps in to ward off the pressures of a domineering mother, an estranged boyfriend who wants more, and a son looking for a fairy tale, she is off to the mountains to spend two weeks writing. Enter Killian Jones, a practical business man who has never been anyone's muse.
1. Chapter 1 - Arriving

**_So after telling someone about this fic, I couldn't resist posting the first chapter. It will be a bit shorter than my others, but the story would not get out of my head. Maybe it is the hot weather, but I needed a story with snow and a mountain cabin._**

Emma Swan was not sure that she had the right state let alone the right address when she turned her yellow Volkswagen off of the two lane paved road onto a dirt path. Trees and bushes lined either side of it and obscured her vision from anything that even resemble civilization. Her phone and laptop were next to her on the worn leather seat, but she doubted there was wifi out in such a location. Folding her arms on the steering wheel, she frowned up at the cloudy sky that she could see through the thick web of barren branches overhead.

"I'm going to kill her," she said, referring to her friend and editor, Mary Margaret Nolan. This was hardly the start of a vacation for the woman who had barely managed to escape from Boston before her ex came up with an excuse why he would not be able to watch their son for a few days. What did he care if she had a deadline looming? Why should he be bothered to actually do something parental for more time than it took to watch a movie or sporting event?

Pulling the phone up to her ear, she pressed the familiar speed dial and waited. Before her friend had even said hello, she was already on her tirade.

"Did you think this was a good idea? I'm not a prissy girl by any means, but seriously? Am I going to have to get water from a well and milk cows or something?"

"Hello to you too," the woman said in her usual nonplussed voice. "Where are you right now? Give me your cross streets?"

"Right now I'm between a tree and bush," Emma informed her sourly. "Seriously there is nothing here."

Through the phone there was the sound of a baby's not completely terrorizing screech and the woman's husband making some kind of cross between soothing sounds and baby talk. That was disconcerting enough, as the baby talk was coming from a 6'2" sheriff. The woman was an actual super hero sometimes, Emma had often imagined. She was a star in the publishing world and balanced her home and family life perfectly. Currently she was trying to track Emma's whereabouts on a phone app/gps and walking her through the steps to find the mountainside bed and breakfast that was going to be her home for the next two weeks.

"You should see it just ahead," the woman said cheerfully. "And before you complain about the antiques and outdated nature of the place, just know that it is quaint. I've never been there, but I know the owner. Granny Lucas owns it and another little place in Storybrooke, Maine. I think her granddaughter Ruby is actually running this one now. She's a spitfire." The woman was running through the full background on the woman as Emma half listened and struggled to pull her wheeled bag out of the narrow backseat. She needed a new car, but this one was trusty and for the most part reliable.

"It looks like it's going to snow," Emma moaned into the device. "I hate being snowed in. I can't make it down this mountain if it snows."

Impatiently Mary Margaret sighed back in response. "Emma Swan, you are a writer. Well you would be if you actually wrote. Between raising Henry and your latest break up turned make up with Walsh, you're not exactly taking the time to get this new book done. Maybe being snowed in a room with just you, a coffee maker, and your computer is what you need."

Taking a fortifying breath, Emma cringed at the rustic building in front of her. "I mean I guess it is character building. This place is kind of small though. How exactly do they stay in business?"

"Emma! Concentrate!" Mary Margaret's voice sounded harsh in her ear. "You're there to write. It looked lovely on the website. How much room do you need? Now go check in and call me when your next chapter is ready."

The click left Emma alone all over again, standing in front of a two story building that was honestly no bigger than a suburban house. Hiking her computer bag and purse over her arm, she climbed the four steps onto a wrap around porch that littered with rocking chairs and small bistro tables. When snow was not imminent it was probably a quaint place to have a cup of coffee and moon away a few hours reflecting as you stared off into the distance. The wintery blast of wind that made the wind chimes sound forebodingly severe was more than likely preventing that from being a realty.

Just as Emma was about to reach for the handle, the red door swung open and a tornado of dark hair, perfume, and long legs brushed past her with an overly energetic terrier leading the way. "On with you. Do your business!" The woman turned sharply on a pair of red heels, her equally red lips breaking into a welcoming smile. "You must be Emma."

A bit dazed and not sure exactly who this woman was or why she knew her, Emma nodded and finally realized that she should extend a hand in introduction. "Yes, Emma Swan."

The woman ignored her handshake offer and pulled her in for a hug, nearly dislodging the computer from her shoulder. "I'm Ruby Lucas," she said with an equally bright smile. "Welcome to Wolf Castle Cabins Bed and Breakfast Retreat. I know it's the longest name of a business ever. Anyway, welcome! You're the last guest joining us."

Emma drew back, readjusting the strap and grasping the handle on her suitcase even tighter. "How many are there?"

"We've got 16," the woman said with a nod. Full house. Every place is rented."

Emma looked around the porch at the not very big accommodations. "You're housing 16 here?" She was suddenly having nasty flashbacks of group homes and bunk beds from her foster child upbringing. That was not going to be good for a quiet writing retreat.

Ruby let out a raucous laugh, her long dark hair tumbling down her back and her overly exposed chest in the tight red and black dress. "Oh honey, this is my house. My wife and I cook here at our house and you can have group meals with us. Or there's a kitchen in each cabin. I assure you that is quite private and comfortable."

"Oh," Emma said, looking into the distance and seeing nothing supporting this claim. "And where are these cabins?"

"Yours is at the end of Jack London Road." The brunette pointed at a gravely path that was just wide enough for a car. "Two bedrooms and a great fireplace. You'll be in heaven. We're having a few events too if you want to meet anyone. I know some people like to kind of mix it up on vacation and there are some nice looking single men and women here." She ran a hand through the tumble of hair. "Let's get you a key and checked in."

Just a little bit later Emma pulled up in front of a rustic cabin that sat nestled among the tall pines and oaks. She wasn't exactly sure what was on the lands surrounding her, but Ruby and her wife, Dorothy, assured her that the snow was supposed to hold off for a day or two. Ruby claimed to have a sixth sense about those things.

Sitting behind her wheel, she couldn't help but wonder what she should do next. The practical thing, of course, was to get out of the car, unlock the cabin, take a quick tour and then unpack her things. Maybe even make herself a cup of tea and take a hot shower. Yes, those were the practical things to do, she thought. And she sat exactly where she was, in the driver's seat and stared at the wooden structure in front of her. She was alone. Completely, totally and finally alone. It was what she needed, what she wanted, what she'd fought for with her adopted mother, Ingrid, and sometimes boyfriend, Walsh. When Mary Margaret had offered her the two week reprieve as a chance to finish the first draft of a new book, Emma had jumped at the chance. Now, she had no idea what to do with her new found freedom.

"Don't be twit, Emma," she said to herself, leaning back and taking a cleansing breath. She sat, gathering her energy, a slender woman, blonde hair pulled back in a French braid, delicate features slightly pale with fatigue, purple circles beginning to ring her stunningly green blue eyes. Eyes that were terribly expressive, showing everything she was thinking, her mother always said. Thinking of her, Emma's head began to pound. She had let them down, her mother and son, and the guilt of that weighed like a stone in her heart. She had tried to explain why she needed to do this, why she couldn't follow their well laid path for her and her life. She simply hadn't been able to clarify to them or Walsh why it had become such a strain for her, how every time she took a step on that path it took her farther and farther away from where she needed to be. She couldn't even put a finger on where it was she felt her heart was pulling her.

So after a tearful series of phone calls with her editor to explain why her latest romance novel was not going to be ready to go on schedule, it was decided. Two weeks at a rustic mountain retreat without the pressures of Walsh asking her to take the next step, her mother's gentle but overbearing desire for her to settle down, and Henry's desire for them to be a more traditional family.

They had looked at her with tolerant confusion, helped her pack and made her promise to call. They still didn't understand why she had fled and probably never would. Heaving a deep sigh, Emma climbed out of the car and headed for the covered porch of the cabin. It didn't matter, she assured herself, that her mother and Walsh didn't understand her need to find out what was keeping her from being what everyone else seemed to want her to be. She would take her time, Emma told herself as she unlocked the door, relax, enjoy her alone time, and hopefully bring herself out of the blue funk that was beginning to seep into her bones.

Opening the door of the cabin, Emma gave a delighted gasp. It was perfect, she thought. The floors and walls were a polished cherry wood, the hearth a smooth gray stone. Colorful rugs were thrown artfully around the room, the furnishings were simple with smooth lines, all soft and pastel. The kitchen to her right was open, separated only by a waist high, stone covered bar. A small, two person table sat in one corner of the rectangular room, a stove with a tall white refrigerator were on the far right of the kitchen. A long counter with a deep sink stood across from the bar, an extended window open to the woods outside. The stairs in front of her curved slightly, leading up to the second story. Exuberantly, Emma bounded up the polished stairway and to the next floor. She hugged herself as she wandered through the two large bedrooms and the charmingly old fashioned bathroom. It was so peaceful here, she thought, somehow so right. Staring through the two large windows in the master bedroom, Emma became aware of just how beautiful the mountains around her were. This was exactly where she should be, she knew; if any place in the world was conducive to her figuring out her life, this was. With a lighter step, she meandered outside to unload her vehicle.

Killian Jones watched her from the shadows of the trees beside his own rented cabin. Who was she, he wondered, why was she here? Ruby hadn't told him that anyone was renting out the usual cabin that his brother Liam and sister-in-law Elsa used after cancelling their trip at the last minute. But then, Ruby rarely told anyone important details, preferring to concentrate on the juicier details in life. He gazed at the beautiful young woman, watched her move quickly, a little nervously, pulling her luggage and a box labeled "Books" from her car and carry them into the cabin. Killian could have sworn he could smell an elusive, feminine scent carry over the crisp breeze. Gritting his teeth, he spun on his heel and began stalking back toward his own cabin. He'd be damned if he'd let anyone – especially a female – disrupt his time and his plans.

 _ **Thoughts?**_


	2. Chapter 2 - First Meeting

**_Looks like people are liking this so here is the next chapter. I know some people might comment on Walsh. Here's the deal that is probably not as clear until later chapters. He and Emma were dating. He wanted things to be more serious. She kept putting him off and now they are "on a break." You'll see that she even struggles with what to call him (boyfriend or ex)._**

 ** _Someone mentioned that I had put Elsa and Liam together again in this fic. I did. Just call me a sucker for those two in my stories. They don't play a huge role in this, but you'll see their names pop up from time to time._**

 ** _Thank you all for your comments, messages, reviews, likes, kudos, etc. It helps get me motivated to get these chapters out faster._**

Chapter 2 – Meeting

The next day, Emma spent the morning banging out as many of her thoughts as she could on the red laptop that she had bought with the money from her last book sale. Maybe they weren't perfect, but Mary Margaret would be pleased with the progress. She hadn't even bothered to go back to the main house for meals, ordering room service that morning and saving a bagel with all the fixings for lunch from the stash. She knew she should probably consider driving back to town for supplies, but the idea seemed too practical at the moment.

After hitting send to her editor, she shrugged into a little red leather jacket and covered her braided hair with a thick gray beanie before she left her little cabin and began to roam through the thick woods. It was lush here, she thought, staring up at the towering trees. The smell of moss and cool dew mingling with the scent of the pines invigorated her. The sun dappled down through the thick evergreen foliage warming the spots it managed to touch. It was magic, pure and simple. She hadn't realized just how much she needed this solitude, not consciously. But in her heart, in her very soul, she had known. Just as Ruby had told her, the storm clouds had moved past them at least for the day, leaving it sunny but bitterly cold.

Smiling gently, she flipped her braid back over her red jacket, admiring the gnarling trees and their ancient bark that sprang up around her. Then she heard it, the sound of water rushing violently over rocks, surmising that a river or at least a large creek must be nearby. Suddenly, she was stepping from the relative shadow of thick covering to an open, sun filled clearing. She saw the rocky rises, and hurriedly began to climb the rocks. Her new hiking boots squeaked with the effort, carrying her higher until she was at last on top of the overhang. Looking down, she was filled with awe at the power and beauty she was witness to in that position. Emma eased herself down to watch the water flow and imagined that in the spring and summer this would be the perfect spot to watch brave kayakers ride the rapids. She paid no attention as the sun made its way across the sky, the shadows around her growing long. Finally, she stretched luxuriously, her body completely relaxed. "And that's the first time I can ever remember doing absolutely nothing all afternoon," she said to herself. She rose, pulled her hands over her head again in a soulful stretch, and nearly tumbled off the edge.

She might have fallen if he hadn't caught her. He hadn't known he could move so swiftly. Killian had watched her for a while now, seen the way she had become so engrossed in the world around her. Had he ever been that enamored with life, he had wondered. Then she had stood, stretching that white cotton shirt tight over her lovely curves, and he had seen her begin to loose balance, even before she became aware of it. Now here he stood, his hands grasping her shoulders in a tight grip, holding her steady.

He was any woman's dream, Emma thought. Tall, with a lean muscular charm, wind tossed inky black hair, and sharp, unforgiving features that bordered on brutish. And those eyes, bright and piercing, were more than enough to hold anyone's attention. "I – uh – you startled me. I didn't realize anyone was here. I didn't even hear you," she rushed out, wincing at her babbling. His hands seemed to burn where they were touching her, even through the leather and cotton.

"That's because you weren't paying any attention," he said, "and you were talking to yourself." The man, she didn't even know his name, had a thick British accent that made it sound like James Bond himself had rescued her.

Emma flushed slightly, embarrassed to have been caught. "Oh, well, that's a really bad nervous habit I have."

He raised a dark eyebrow, curiosity running over his face. "Why were you nervous?"

"I'm not – it was just – I thought I was alone."

He gave her a quick smile, then slowly let go of her. The friction of his hands running down her arms caused her to give an involuntary shiver. That feeling certainly hadn't coursed through her before. She was far from innocent, but touches from Neal and Walsh had always been just that – skin on skin. There was no aftermath or lingering effect.

Killian tucked his hands in his pockets, ignoring the need he seemed to have to touch her. Those big green eyes blinking up at him were enough to make any sane man drool. "I'm Emma Swan," the woman said, extending her hand. Killian stared at her long fingers for a moment before reluctantly accepting her offer.

"You're staying in the cabin just over that way," he stated, ignoring the tingling inching up his arm. He pulled his hand quickly away, tried not to seem too disconcerted. Damn it, he did not like this.

"Um, yes, yes I am. How did you know?" she asked, her brow knitting in question.

"Well, it is the only other cabin on this side of the mountain. And this particular site isn't exactly accessible by vehicle." Her delicate face cleared, a small smile going across her face. From a distance she was lovely, but up close she was stunning. She had an aura of struggle around her, though, and her eyes seemed to be haunted. Why was she here? What was she trying to run from – or run to? No, no way was he going to get his curiosity involved. If he did that, then he would have to spend time with her, get to know her, and that was far too dangerous. He'd already chastised himself for considering going to the group breakfast that morning in hopes of a better glimpse of her.

"I didn't know there was anyone else here," Emma commented, watching his handsome face close. "I mean this close by. Ruby certainly hadn't warned her she would have a neighbor – and what a neighbor he was.

"I'm about a half mile east from where you're staying," he answered, taking a step back. "I figure that should be enough space between us," he continued in a rough tone, "I like my privacy."

He turned his gaze back to her, holding her still with his eyes. "I won't infringe on yours, Emma Swan, and I'm trusting you won't disturb my solitude, either." The last was said in a cold tone, his voice a clear warning.

Nodding slowly, she took a deep breath and began to wonder about the man in front of her. "I'm sorry," she replied, "I – I didn't mean to disturb you." She watched as the edgy man ran a jerky hand through his hair, looking down and breaking eye contact. She heard him give a deep sigh, then he stared back at her.

"No," he finally said, "I'm sorry. It's just that Ruby didn't warn me she was renting out the cabin again. See Liam and Elsa had planned for their family to use it. You – surprised me."

Emma's face softened, another grin moving across her full lips. "You know Elsa?" she asked, surprised.

"She's my sister-in-law," the man elaborated, an answering smile easing his features.

Emma let out a little laugh. "Then you must be Killian Jones. You know, you and your brother are her heroes. And mine now, too, I guess." Elsa had mentioned him on more than one occasion, talking about the dark haired and dashing man who avoided the spotlight and felt that he stood in his brother's shadow.

He gave a snort and shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, well," he commented, obviously becoming uncomfortable, "you know the way back?"

Emma's smile dropped at the quick change of subject. Why the thought of Killian leaving, breaking off their conversation, should bother her so much she didn't know. And she really wasn't up for exploring. These weeks were for her to sort out the real world, not for her to become entangled with a mysterious and handsome stranger. "Yes," she answered, her voice raw, "I take the path to the right and follow the stream back down this hill and through the woods."

Killian nodded, saying nothing, and turned to leave. After a step, though, he spun back and watched as the wind whipped through her loosened braid. Because the sight of her caught his breath and stilled his heart, his tone was harsher than he had intended it to be. "Don't linger long, love," he warned, "the sun's setting and it'll be black as pitch soon." With that, he stalked away from her, heading down the opposite trail.

A few minutes later Emma wandered back toward the cabin, a brilliantly red sunset lighting the way and making her wish for something better than her phone to take pictures. Her mind began pondering the strange and engaging Killian Jones before she could stop it. He wanted to be alone, and so did she. He was craving solitude, the same way she was. They were better off staying well away from each other, of that she was sure. So why was it that she felt a sudden and irrational pull to walk half a mile east?

***AAA***

Killian had not bothered to go to the dining hall for any of the group meals, preferring the solitude of his own cabin. When he had arrived from the grocery store, Dorothy had seen his purchases and teased that he must be planning to stay a month at least with all that. However, as each meal time came and went over the next day he kept wondering if the blonde haired Emma Swan was sitting there right then.

He was thinking about her too much and far too often. It infuriated him. Killian was a man who prided himself on self-control, who always kept himself in fierce check. But she was making it impossible not to remember her, not to picture her in his mind. He could still see the way she looked sitting on the rocks, sun making her hair appear like spun gold. There was such a sweet mystery to her that he wanted to unravel. Added to the not so obvious inner battle she seemed to be having, the combination became almost irresistible. Shaking his head, Killian sipped the warm coffee in his hand and watched as the night, along with heavy storm clouds, moved in.

What in hell was he supposed to do about her? Emma Swan was a striking woman – not just in her looks, but in her very being. There was something about her, something almost mesmerizing, that threatened to overwhelm him. It would be different if she were the type of woman who could accept a physical relationship. She could be an extremely interesting diversion, one who might even help him forget about the past few months. She wasn't, though, that much he knew just from their one innocent encounter.

Wind cracked and tree branches ominously around the cabin, snow already falling from the sky in fat wet flakes. At least the weather was in sync with his mood, he thought with a derisive smile. And if the electricity didn't hold, it would be even better. He could light a fire, hide in the relative dark and brood. But what would Emma do? No, uh-huh, he was not going to worry about her. She was a grown woman – she would be fine. The loud clamor echoing in the sky as the wind whipped and made every inch of the house rattle, as if God knew Killian was lying. Slamming his mug down on the kitchen counter, Killian spun on his heel, grabbing his black leather jacket as he headed out the door. Damn it to hell, he'd never get anything done if he kept this up.

***AAA***

"It's nothing," Emma said to herself, "it's just a storm. So, I've lost electricity? It'll be fine." She moved from room to room, talking to herself, trying to calm the nerves that were rising, lighting candles as she went. This was not what she had expected when she came to Maine at the tail end of winter. The wind rattled one of the shutters against a window, startling her as she tried to light a match. "It's okay," she continued in a shaky voice, "just mother nature. Don't be an idiot, Emma."

Heading down the stairs with a fat white candle in hand, she listened as the wind whipped outside, the mixture of sleet and snow finally beginning to fall, icy pellets pounding against the windows. She had almost finished lighting the candles in the living room when a loud banging on the kitchen door spun her around, her heart in her throat. What in the world? Moving cautiously, Emma went to the kitchen window and peered out. In the darkness, all she saw was a tall figure, ominously broad shouldered, hunkering down into himself. Then a flash of lightening lit the scene and she saw the scowl on the familiar face. Killian. What was he doing out here?

What was he doing out here, Killian wondered. He was an idiot. It was too late now, though. Pounding on the hard wood again, he waited impatiently for Emma to come to the door. Finally, it was flung open and she was staring at him, curiosity on her face. He stared at her, took in her expressive eyes, her long, loose hair, her flannel pajamas and cursed under his breath. Yes indeed, he was an idiot. "Killian? What – "

"Do I get to come in?" he asked abruptly, cutting her sentence short. His dark hair was plastered across his forehead and flakes of snow were frozen across the dark strands.

"Oh, yes, of course," she answered, stepping out of his way. Killian tromped into the dark kitchen then headed toward the living room, not bothering to see if she would follow. He stopped in front of the cold fireplace, his back to her.

"I thought you might be having trouble because of the storm," he said, his voice rising over the sound of the wind. He shouldn't be here, he thought, taking in the cozy scene around him. Two people, no electricity, dozens of blazing candles, a turbulent storm racing outside – it was downright erotic. And wrong.

"Uh, oh. The – uh – electricity is out," she managed, watching his stiff back. Why did he make her so nervous? He was her friend's brother-in-law, for goodness sake, and she was an adult. She had certainly been alone with a man before – just not one quite like him. She watched as he bent down, pulling wood from the small pile beside the hearth and stacking it in the fireplace. He seemed so right here, she thought.

"So, what is it you do?" he asked in a muffled voice.

"What?" she replied, not quite understanding his question.

"Your job, love," he elaborated, turning his gaze for a moment to look at her. She was crossing her arms over herself and those white and red pajamas. He had a vague image of her on Christmas morning as the two of them sipped coffee and watched their kids marvel over what Santa had brought them. Shaking his head, he realized that his fantasy life was indeed over the top in an unusually domestic way.

Blushing slightly, Emma answered, "Oh, well, I'm a writer."

Killian nodded, turning his attention back to stacking the wood. "And you're here for a vacation? To relax? To have time alone?"

"Yes," she said, "though it's a little odd for me. I'm so used to having people around."

"Do you like them?" he asked, striking a long wooden match.

"Who?" she inquired.

"People," he said, standing and turning toward her.

"People?" she asked, incredulous, "You want to know if I like people? Why? Don't you?"

Killian stuck his hands into his pockets, watching her intently. "Not particularly – as a rule," he answered, his voice going soft, "I haven't had too much luck with the human species."

She stared at him a moment, gauging his mood. "You're a cynic," she replied, "and I can understand cynics."

"Aye, that does describe me. How did you know, love? Is that because you are one? Or are you a romantic? Naïve and full of hope?" He took a step closer to her, then stopped, waiting for a reaction. She shook her head, a small smile crossing her lips.

"I don't know whether that was a compliment or an insult," she answered. "I am not just a writer. I'm a single mom of a 10 year old son. I don't know any single moms who are naïve."

"I find that the truth can be accepted as either a rude comment or as flattery, or, if the person is smart enough, as neither one," he told her, his eyes lighting with their exchange.

They stood staring at each other, the wind not seeming as dangerously threatening and the crackling of the fire becoming louder. A quick tremor ran up Emma's spine, goose bumps rising on her flesh. How strange, she thought, to act this way around a man she barely knew.

"Would – would you like some wine?" she asked absently, trying to break the spell. "I haven't really bought anything from the store yet, but I have the wine that Ruby and Dorothy left as a welcome and some crackers. Not much, but…" Without waiting for an answer, she hurried into the kitchen and pulled out the wineglasses and the chilled bottle of Bordeaux. Pouring the wine slowly, she allowed her mind to wander back to Killian. What an odd duck, she thought, so cynical, claiming not to like people, yet coming out in the middle of a storm to check on his neighbor. She decided that he must have a soft heart, whether he admitted it or not. Picking up both glasses, she turned, only to be startled by the man she was thinking of. Gasping, she jumped, sloshing a few drops of the wine onto her hand. "Would you please stop sneaking up like that?!" she snapped before she could stop herself, then watched as that fabulous grin of his spread across his lips.

Without thinking, Killian reached out, lifted her damp hand, and gently licked the red liquid off her knuckles. The sexual bolt was swift and immediate, a hard and quick punch to his gut. He had known better than to touch her, should have stopped his involuntary reflex. But she had made him forget himself again. Letting go of her wrist, Killian stepped back, searching her eyes in the relative darkness of the kitchen. What he saw there almost made him groan. She was aroused, true enough, and she was seeming shocked by that fact.

"Don't, Emma," he said roughly, "don't want me. Don't even like me. I would hurt you so easily, and that's not what you're here for." With that, he turned and opened the back door, ignoring the still heavy downpour. "This storm will pass soon," he said into night, "you should be fine."

Stepping out into the gale, he slammed the door shut behind him. He could only pray that this insane longing for the beautiful woman he had just left would pass, too.

***AAA***

By the next morning there was a thin sheet of ice covering every surface with about two inches of snow atop of that. Thankfully the power had been restored during the night, leaving nothing but a winter wonderland in its wake for them. Emma woke the next morning surprisingly relaxed. After the storm last night, plus the disturbing visit of one Killian Jones, she hadn't thought she'd be able to sleep. Gazing through the lacy curtains, she saw the sun burning holes through the remaining clouds. The bright rays seemed to be calling to her, asking her to come out and play for a while. Play? Had she actually just thought about going outside to play?

With a quick call down to the lodge dining hall, she asked Dorothy to again drop off a few things to bake cookies with, since it was something she enjoyed doing. The woman had assured her that she would do her best to make it up the hill despite the weather. Letting out a light laugh, Emma hopped out of bed and headed for the shower. It was going to be a good day, she thought, one that she would use to spoil herself. She would make chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, she decided, just because she could. Then she'd go into the woods and sketch, indulging in the past time she loved almost as much as writing. As she headed toward the bathroom and the large claw footed tub, she was stopped by the ringing of her phone. Her mood immediately fell.

There were handful of people it could be, but she had a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach who was on the other end. "Hello," she answered hesitantly.

"Oh, Emma, honey, thank goodness. I tried calling you all night, but it kept putting me through to voicemail. The phone company said something about an outage?"

The sound of Walsh's voice brought her back down to her feather mattress, the earlier thrill of the day waning. "Just a little storm," she replied, hoping to mollify him.

"Little," he repeated disbelievingly, "I was watching the Weather Channel. They said it was pretty bad."

Emma rolled her eyes to the ceiling, wishing he wouldn't be this way, wondering exactly when he had begun grating on her nerves. "Walsh, please, don't overreact," she pleaded. She heard him sigh, knew he was pulling his temper under control.

"Emma, I can't help it. I love you so much. I can't help but worry about you all alone on that mountain living in that hut." She bit her lip, deciding it was best not to mention Killian. "What would happen if you hurt yourself, if you got sick, or if you got a flat tire?"

"Walsh we said we weren't going to have these discussions about love and the future yet. I told you that this break up is a break for us. Maybe we can work things out in the future." Emma sat up, her patience wearing thin. "And it's a cabin, not a hut, and it's very sturdy. Mary Margaret wouldn't have put me in any danger. And if I got a flat tire I'd simply google it and figure out how to change it. I doubt you could do much better. As for the other things – you seem to think I'm in the middle of nowhere, which just isn't true. There's a town about twenty minutes from here, and I'm sure they have a doctor as well as an ambulance service."

"But you're still alone, Emma, and last night proved just how easily cut off you are." Heaving a deep breath, the young woman put a hand to her now aching head.

"Walsh, the phone connection is working just fine now," she said through clenched teeth, "I'm also a fairly intelligent person, I'm in extremely good health and the whole reason I came here was to be alone." There was a moment of silence, one Emma knew was meant to show how much she'd hurt him with her words.

"I'd hoped you'd be ready to come home by now, that you'd gotten this episode out of your system. Apparently, that isn't the case. I'm seeing your mother this afternoon – is there anything you'd like me to tell her?" Walsh's voice was clipped now, showing obvious irritation. Emma twisted edge of the sheet around her finger, her nerves beginning to pull taut. "Let her know I'll call tomorrow night."

"Fine," came his curt reply, "maybe you'll be in a more reasonable mood when you talk to her."

"Walsh-" she began.

"I'll call you the day after tomorrow," he bit out, "enjoy your vacation without me."

With that he violently cradled the phone at his work desk, a loud rattle that Emma heard on her end. He was clearly upset and did not understand her hesitancy at even maintaining their relationship. Who chose to be alone? Before true depression could set in, she jumped off the bed and headed for the safety of a hot shower.

***AAA***

Killian sat at his kitchen table with his tablet and stared at the book he would never have admitted purchasing and devouring the night before. The storyline was clichéd, but she had managed to put a bit of realism to it. It was fanciful enough to enthrall younger readers, romantic and medieval enough to intrigue the female buyers and brutal enough to entice the men. There was only one problem: the female lead had become Emma Swan in his head. He hadn't done it intentionally. He had sat down after sleeping for a short stint to look up the beautiful author and there she was, forming in his mind as he read her words.

Groaning loudly, he pushed away from the heavy wood table and paced to the kitchen for more coffee. Even in his short amount of sleep, Killian had dreamed of her last night – long, hot dreams of her face, her eyes, her lips, her body. It wasn't fair. He wasn't looking for something like her, wasn't ready for anything more than anonymous relationships that held no ties. Unfortunately, fate didn't seem to care. Taking a deep swig of the lukewarm Arabic blend, he grimaced and stared out his small kitchen window. It had turned into a beautiful day he observed, the sun drying the standing puddles and warming the brisk air. Too bad he was going to be cooped up all day. That's when he saw her strolling out of the surrounding forest, a thick spiral notebook in one hand and what looked to be a Tupperware container in the other. Damn it!

Emma had decided to take a long walk in the woods, hoping it would clear the last vestiges of guilt. Happily, she'd been right. She had found herself stopping several times, sketching the creatures and the foliage around her. She had forgotten how freeing it was to let her hands fly over a blank piece of paper and bring it to life. She had even caught herself singing. The cookies had been a last minute thought as she was leaving. If she ran into Killian, then she'd have a way of thanking him for last night, and possibly an opening for a civil conversation. She hadn't really had a destination in mind, just meandered through the trees and let her mood lift and float. When she came to the small clearing, she was surprised and pleased. A large cabin of heavy oak stood in the middle of it, a large covered porch wrapping lovingly around the one story structure. It had to be Killian's cabin. Smiling to herself, she climbed the rest of the slight slope and around, heading for the front door and careful of the icy patches. Rounding the corner, she saw Killian standing there, a dark green turtleneck tucked into heavily washed jeans, his bright blue eyes flashing. "Good morning," she called out, keeping the smile plastered on her face.

Killian watched her come toward him, a leather jacket pulled over a black tee, a crisp new pair of jeans with water stains, her hiking boots newly scuffed, and knew he was in trouble. "I brought cookies," she said, holding up the Tupperware and coming up the stairs. Killian raised his eyebrow in question, her scent making him quiver. "As a thank you," she elaborated, rattling the contents in their container. Killian motioned her inside, knowing it was no use trying to send her away. God must be laughing, he thought wryly.

An hour later they sat in front of his fireplace, Killian on one end of the dark leather couch and Emma on the other. Apparently chocolate chip cookies and warm coffee were what soothed the savage beast, Emma thought to herself. They had consumed the small pile of delicate sweets she had brought, carrying on what had, at first, been a stilted discussion. But as the coffee was consumed and the sugar buzz had set in, their conversation had warmed, if not to genuine interest than at least to a curious question/answer session. "So, my brother is married to your cousin?" Killian asked, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Does that make us related?"

"Well," she drawled, "she is only my cousin through adoption and no blood relation to you. I haven't actually seen her since…well it's been two years I guess. She introduced me to…to my boyfriend. Well, ex. It's complicated. We're kind of taking a break and letting me sort things out." Too much information, she told herself.

He gave a deep chuckle, his laughing gaze intent. "You don't sound too – enthusiastic about that," he commented, sipping from his white mug with the word captain scrawled across it.

She didn't want to talk about Walsh right now, not when it had taken her all morning to shake the gloominess he had caused with his phone call. "What about you, Killian?" she asked, "Who are you seeing?"

She watched as his eyes shuttered, his face losing all amusement. "I don't date," he said succinctly, "I don't like people, remember?" Oops, she thought, she must have hit a sore spot.

Killian stood up, his nerves dancing. Having Emma invade his little private corner of the world was bad enough, but to have her question him about his love life was too much. Especially when all he could think about was some bloke putting his hands on a woman Killian himself wanted. The fact that this Walsh had the right to touch her, taste her, be with her shouldn't mean a damn thing to Killian. And the fact that it did was more disturbing than anything else he'd ever dealt with. Moving around the living room, he could feel her deep eyes on him, unspoken questions forming in their depths. Absently, he went to his desk and began thumbing through her sketchbook. It only took a moment for his mind to clear and focus on the extraordinary pictures she had created. She had captured not just the basic shapes of things, but the textures as well. Killian could actually feel the breeze that was pictured blowing through the towering trees.

"Emma, these are brilliant," he said, a bit awed.

"Oh, they're just doodles," she replied, embarrassment in her voice.

He turned to her, studying her blushing face for a moment. "If these are just doodles," he answered, "then I'd love to see your serious work."

She raised her eyes to his and gave a nervous smile. "My real work is my writing," she said, as if repeating a well-rehearsed speech. "Those are just for fun. To clear my head."

"I would think an empty head would hinder your writing, love. From what I can tell, you have a lot of passion inside you even if your writing doesn't show it."

"You've read my work?" she asked.

"I saw your reviews online. Romances aren't really my cup of tea, love. I suppose I prefer literary work to commercial."

She ducked her head again, obviously embarrassed by the work that had sold not being what he deemed appropriate. If she was honest with herself, she would have admitted that it wasn't her style either. It sold. That was what was important to her publisher. Her other writing was locked away, not available for anyone else to read. "I'm a writer, Killian. If I don't write what the audience wants then I'm not published. If I'm not published, I don't get paid. It's as simple as that."

"What do you want to write?" he asked, stabbing the air with his forefinger. "I'm not saying your work isn't well written, love, but it's not you. It's a formula to sell books. What do you want to write?"

"Well – I – uh – it's just – um – I guess I haven't thought about it," she stammered. "Critics say that my books are an extension of my hopes and imagination."

"Bull," he said, his eyes growing hard, "I don't care what other people say about you. How long did it take them to grind the passion down, Emma? How many times did they recite that little statement to you before you began to believe it?" She stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. Well, crap, he had scared her.

How had he known, she wondered. How could he have possibly guessed what she had just begun to understand herself? That she had let the people around her determine her future, and that she, like a lamb to slaughter, had simply followed their lead?

Killian spun around, his eyes now staring out the long window in front of the desk. "Bloody hell. I'm sorry, Emma," he said quietly, "I didn't mean to say that. It's just that I hate to see people waste their God given talents."

She was quite for a moment, not really sure how to respond. Then she, too, stood and went to stand behind him. "No, Killian, don't be sorry. You're right – I have let other people define my existence. That's one of the reasons I came up here. I need to find out who and what I am before I can take any other step in life. If I thought for one minute that I could make a decent living writing the stuff I like, I would do it without looking back. I think I know that now. Having you point it out just cements it in my mind."

Killian listened to her soft explanation and knew he was seeing something beautifully painful happening. Emma was, simply put, becoming – and he, of all people, knew how complicated and heartbreaking that could be. But she was grabbing hold of herself, digging deep inside her heart and soul, and wasn't letting go. He hated to admit that she was making him admire her. He told her as much.

Emma was so stunned by his final sentence that it took her a moment to realize that their bodies were now brushing. But when her eyes collided with his, when she saw the banked fire in his piercing stare, her body went on full alert. She swallowed audibly, her throat suddenly dry, and she had the strangest sensation of being pulled to him without actually being touched. She gazed back at him, her parted mouth a silent invitation. Emma couldn't look away, could barely breath. She'd never felt this electricity before, never even known that it existed outside of books. But here it was, standing in front of her in the guise of Killian Jones.

The minute he turned, Killian knew he was in trouble – real trouble. Those luminous eyes of hers, that moist mouth, the heightened breathing, the pulse at her throat beginning to beat madly. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. It would be so easy, he thought, to reach out, to touch her, to show her that not every man was going to try to break her heart and spirit. Mentally, he shook his head to free it from the heated images. This wasn't the time or place. Moving to the side, Killian broke the slight contact and cleared his throat.

"It's storming again," he commented, his statement punctuated by another burst of wind that made the tall windows of his a-frame cabin rattle ominously. "I could try to drive you back, if you wish, but have you done any shopping yet? It's a long walk back to the dining hall for food."

"What are you suggesting?" she asked. She lived in Boston where winter squalls were hardly out of the norm. But for the severity of them, she walked on paved streets and sidewalks that were professionally swept to keep the flow moving. Trekking through mountain paths and dirt hills was not exactly the same thing. And her beloved car was not equipped to handle the ice much better than she was.

His back was to her as he peered into the wintery landscape. "Well, I can drive you back in my jeep, but that won't solve the problem of your food or getting about. Or we can pick up a few of your things, call the lasses at the lodge for some extra blankets, and you can stay here." He lifted his shoulders slightly. "It's your call though."

"You would invite me to stay here?" Emma asked, her arms wrapping around herself and shivering. "What happened to not liking people?"

He gave her a half smile that she could see reflected in the glass of the window. "Perhaps I have a bit of a heart after all. I wouldn't want it on my conscience if I left you to starve and freeze when my pantry is quite full."

"It's tempting," she said, looking back at his kitchen. She already see packages of snack food and he had something simmering in a soup pot on the stove. It had not even dawned on her before how the aromas of that kitchen were already calling for her. "Okay, I appreciate it. For the food though, not the company." She winked at him with that statement waited impatiently for a snippy response. She didn't get one.

Instead he handed her the knit beanie and told her to bundle up for the drive. "It'll get worse before it gets better. Best not tempt fate by waiting too late." He navigated the unpaved road rather well in his jeep and made the calls to Ruby and Dorothy for extra blankets and a snow shovel just in case as she threw her belongings into her bags and loaded them into his jeep. "I would have done that," he told her, securing a container of firewood in the back before cranking it back up. "I always try to be a gentleman."

"You've already saved me twice, Killian, no need to throw out the chivalrous routine too."

 ** _If you're enjoying this, drop me a line. I could use the pick me up on a day that seems like everyone is rejecting me._**


	3. Chapter 3 - Falling

**_First of all, thanks for the messages of support for me and for this story. I've had a pretty crappy week overall and it hasn't been getting any better, but reading the reviews, comments, and messages made me feel better. So thank you._**

 ** _Killian was a bit of a jerk in the last chapter. And this chapter will explain a little bit more what's going on with him. I went back and added this first part – a conversation with Elsa – to give him a little more back story. I hope that helps. You'll also see that he is fighting his inner demons a bit in this chapter._**

 ** _I will warn you that this chapter is a bit longer, but I really couldn't split it. You'll see why when you get to the end of it. So pour yourself a drink, fasten your seatbelt, and enjoy the ride. This and the next chapter are two of my favorites._**

 **Chapter 3 - Falling -** ** _Trigger Warning of Self Harm/Suicide._**

"So what's his story?" Emma asked, her laptop open and the screen blankly staring back at her as she huddled against her headboard with the phone. "You said he was hot, but you never said he was a jerk."

"He's not," Elsa insisted. "Not really. Not in the way you think. Killian is…well…he's a bit broken I guess."

"Aren't we all," Emma said with a sigh. "You have to give me more than that. Yesterday he was all about telling me how he hates people and that he's bad news. Today he's offering to let me stay with him during the storm. Is he bipolar? Is he planning to murder me?"

Elsa laughed, probably too loudly as Emma could hear the clipped English accent of Liam asking her what was so funny. His wife shushed him and came back to Emma a few moments later and explained she went into another room.

"I don't know the whole story with Killian, but I'll tell you what I know, okay. Liam is your typical older brother type. I think it's why we bonded. We were both in situations where we had to practically raise a younger sibling after our parents died or disappeared. Liam did that for Killian. He tried to be father, mother, brother, and everything in between. From what I've seen it's hard for Killian to live up to what Liam has done because he feels like he's always in second place."

"So I'm getting the cold shoulder from a guy because he has issues with sibling rivalry?" Emma asked incredulously. "There has to be more to it than that…"

"There is," Elsa said, dropping her voice even more. "Liam started the ship building company right after Killian started at the local university. The plan was for them to run it together. Except Killian meets this woman his senior year and starts seeing her. The problem was that she was married."

"Wow," Emma said, not sounding fully impressed, but feeling like some of the pieces were starting to make sense. "I guess Liam didn't approve of that."

"No, he didn't, but making it worse was the fact that this woman was married to Robert Gold. He owns half of the supply chains where Liam and Killian get what they need for the boats they build. This guy was not happy about his wife cheating on him and lowered the boom. He threatened to get custody of their son and stopped all the resources from getting to Liam."

Emma nodded into the air, realizing after a moment that Elsa had paused and wasn't seeing her prodding movements. "And what did Killian do?"

"Even with all that, Killian said he loved Milah and wanted to be with her. From what I heard he gave this whole speech about how they could sail away together and start over some place – just him, her, and her son. Except Mr. Gold doesn't let it happen. He somehow gets Milah to come back to him. Liam is practically bankrupt from this whole deal with no supplies. And just when Liam convinces Killian to help him get the business back on track, the worst happens."

"It gets worse?" Emma felt guilty for essentially gossiping, but she wasn't sure who else she could turn to in that moment. She had already Googled him and found very little about his private life. This was all news to her.

"Milah was found dead. She killed herself." Elsa paused to let that sink in a little. "Liam was able to find new suppliers, dragged Killian into the business and has been pushing him ever since. I guess it has just been too much lately for him though. Killian's been angrier. I think it's just reached a boiling point and Liam sent him on this vacation to calm down."

"That's horrible. I'm glad you told me though."

There was a slight shuffle on the other line as Elsa clearly was on the move again. "I'm just telling you because I didn't want you to say the wrong thing. He's not a bad guy, Emma. But he…he has a hard time trusting people. And when he doesn't trust someone, he just shuts down."

***AAA***

Killian breathed in the cold air, letting it burn his lungs a bit. He knew they had plenty of firewood, enough for at least a week if not more. He'd even carried back some of the extra from Emma's cabin to add to the load just in case. Still he had to escape from the cabin where he could not hold hear her but sense her in every space. Her cabin was certainly larger, but his offered a bit more privacy for each of them. Only one story with a basement game room underneath, his sleeping space was on one side with its own bath and hers on the other. It should have made the situation bearable. It didn't.

He knew he was being a jerk to her, angry and bitter at the same time. It wasn't exactly how he wanted to behave. But there was something about the way she looked at him that sent sirens blaring in his head and heart. She was beautiful and smart, but it was more than that. He knew that she could crush the already fragmented and recovered pieces of himself in an instant. And she might even do it for sport.

The sound of his axe hitting the wood he wanted to split echoed violently around him like a gunshot. The pull of his muscles and tearing sensation of the effort making him feel alive.

Liam had warned him about his temper, more than warned him when he marched in and insisted that Killian remove himself from their offices until he could better control his impulses around the employees and clients. He supposed he understood, as Liam was the shining example when it came to such things. People could find no fault in the elder brother, but Killian seemed to never quite live up to those expectations. Liam graduated at the top of his class. Killian was fourth. But it was more than that. It was seeing the disappointment in his brother's eyes when he failed. It was knowing that his brother would have to work harder or sacrifice more just to make up for his shortcomings. He wasn't sure that he could do that again.

It had nothing to do with Emma, except that it did. He wondered what his brother would say if such a woman fell in love with him. Would he be proud of his little brother? Happy for him? Or would he wonder what Killian would do to screw that up too. It was that possibility that made Killian wonder if he would ever be good enough for anything he wanted. And just as he usually did, he could hear his brother's voice in his ear telling him that he was trying to ruin it before anything had a chance to begin – the definition of a defense mechanism. He was so sure that his chance with Emma was already impossible that he was bracing himself for that fall with rudeness and sarcasm.

"Take a chance, brother." That's what Liam would tell him. He would also call him a prat and a few other choice names, but he'd still want him to take a chance.

***AAA***

The snow had fallen steadily all day, just as Killian and the meteorologists predicted. While he had offered to give up the master bedroom for her, she had said the other was fine and even preferable since it was away from the main room where he seemed to be filling his time watching soccer and coaching from the leather sofa. He would occasionally catch a glimpse of her hunched over her laptop with her hair messily piled onto the top of her head and her teeth biting into her lower lip as she read back what she wrote.

Several hours later Emma pattered her way into the kitchen, a content smile on her face. She'd finally broken through the block, and, if she did say so herself, had even managed to write about the two main characters having amazingly steamy sex. Of course, most of what they'd done was probably impossible in the real world; she'd certainly never slept with a man who had made her chant his name like a prayer. But then, she supposed that what she wrote was fantasy, and if it was going to be a fantasy, then it might as well be a damned good one. Besides, her fans didn't seem to mind.

Humming to herself, she bent over the pot she had spied earlier and breathed in the heavenly aroma in search of some sustenance that she didn't have to spend too much time cooking. He clearly meant this to be dinner, but he wasn't there and it was obviously ready. Reaching into the freezer, she spied a loaf of garlic bread and on a whim set it out as she heated the oven. Behind her, the mantel clock chimed six o'clock. Her eyes narrowed as she realized she'd lost all track of time, as she usually did when she was on a writing roll. But lost time wasn't what was bothering her; it was the absence of Killian.

Not that she missed him, she assured herself, but she certainly wasn't a person who would wish injury on anyone. Well, not normally, she amended, pulling a bowl of already prepared spaghetti from the refrigerator. Her eyes went to the windows that lined the far side of the eat in kitchen and noted that the sky was an eerie steel gray. The only way she could tell that the sun was almost gone was that the trees outside were becoming dark, undefined shapes.

Sighing, she set the bread on the rack in the oven and began rummaging through the cabinets again for bowls. He would be fine; he was a grown man, perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He was in great condition, her eyes could attest to that, and if a bear attacked him he'd simply spear him with that brilliant glare of his and send it running in the opposite direction.

Just as the bread's scent began to waft through the air, she heard the front door open. She refused to acknowledge the brief wave of relief that swamped her.

"You're making dinner?" he asked from the kitchen doorway, the smell of crisp air and fresh woods following him.

"I guess you did that with the soup. I was heating up some bread. Is that okay? I can pay you back for any food I use, if you want."

Her snide remark tightened the muscles he'd just found relaxing. It had been…strange, coming back to the cabin, seeing small signs of another human being, a woman, and smelling the tantalizing aroma of the food. He'd thought he could try again with Emma, maybe reach some sort of tentative cease fire for at least a few hours. But instead she had to make a snippy remark and ruin all his good intentions.

"I didn't ask for your money, Emma," he ground out. "I just asked a simple question."

She felt a moment of shame over her attitude, but she couldn't seem to help herself. He'd walked in, his presence crowding her space, and her entire system seemed to switch to fight mode. Trying to ease over the tension, she licked her lips and turned back to the refrigerator where she started to gather vegetables for a salad.

"You're right. Yes, I kind of assumed this was what you planned for dinner. Do you want to eat now with me?"

Her question threw him off stride. He hadn't expected such a quick acquiescence; hell, he hadn't expected even a kind word from her, just that icy reserve. He had two choices: he could be a total bastard, or he could accept her white flag. Since she was his sister-in-law's friend/cousin, he chose to do the latter.

"Sure, that sounds great. I'll just go wash up and help you."

Emma kept her gaze focused on the stove as she nodded, listening raptly as he disappeared toward his room. When she heard his muffled steps from the other side of the cabin she let out a silent breath.  
So here she was, in a remote Maine cabin, making a simple meal while the sound of the fire crackled in the background, preparing food for two adults. _Two_ …the thought was nearly boggling. Mary Margaret would be so proud…that is, she would be if they could keep from maiming each other over the salad.

When he returned a few minutes later, he began the task of chopping the various vegetables she had piled. She was a bit surprised by his knife skills and asked about it. "What are you a chef? I must say your soup smells divine."

That brought out a pride filled smile as he ran his knife through the tomato. "Hardly," he said. "I design ships with my brother. Little sailing vessels, tankers, cruise ships, you name it. The stew on the stove is my mother's recipe. It was her way of cleaning out the pantry and having something on the stove for when my father returned. She never knew when that would be so it was easier to have something at the ready."

Emma patted the lettuce and spinach dry, adding them to the bowl. "You're preaching to the choir there. I have a handful of recipes that I leave on the stove all day. That way I can write and when my son comes home ravenous and cranky I can place it in front of him. His favorite is Hungarian Goulash with grilled cheese."

He asked a few more questions about her son, which she proudly answered. To her surprise none of his questions were that clichéd or rude, as his queries all tended to be probing and interested. "Sounds like you have quite the lad," he said as he carried both their plates to the wooden table by the window. "I hope my mother would have spoken about me the way you talk about your Henry."

"She doesn't?" Emma asked, racking her brain for what Elsa may have said of her mother-in-law. She remember too late that she had said the woman died and left Liam to raise Killian.

"She passed away when I was quite young," he said in a flat tone, automatically brushing off her apologies for bringing up the topic. "It was a long time ago."

They turned their conversation to other things, avoiding any real connections. He even managed to keep his temper in check and not resort to any sarcasm. That was until he asked again about her writing.

"So did you get anything done today, love?" he asked, his plate and bowl now empty, as well as his refilled glass of wine. "I mean of your writing, not the romance drivel."

She pursed her lips at him, angrily laying her fork on her plate. "It's not drivel," she reminded him. "Like it or not, my last book was very popular. It sold out in several markets and has one of the highest download rates ever. You can't call that drivel. Or is it just because it carries that pink bow of romance."

"Not at all; it's the bread and butter of the publishing business. Some of the historical romances are more thoroughly researched than other fiction books are. I guess I just didn't…" he broke off with a shrug.

"You just what?" she prodded.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes, I think I really do."

He sat forward, resting his elbows on the table as he leaned across his plate towards her. She wanted honesty, then he would give it to her. He just hoped that she wasn't one of those people with a thin glass ego, like so many people he was forced to deal with.

"Fine, I'll tell you. I just didn't picture a woman like you writing steamy scenes and confessions of love."

He couldn't have slapped her harder. His statement cut her deeply, more deeply than he could have known. She battled back first the sadness and then the fury that arose as her defense system. She understood why he'd said it, but that didn't help to ease the sting.

"What, a single, independent woman can't yearn for some romance? Is that only the sacred ground of desperate housewives and teenage girls?" she bit out, her hands fisting.

"That's not what I meant. I find it hard to believe that you're a romance novelist because…well, frankly, you've struck me as a bit cold and indecisive," he stated, inwardly wincing when he saw her eyes flash. And then it was gone, the emotion he thought he'd seen, shuddered by a curtain of frost.

"Cold? Mr. Jones, you haven't experienced cold yet," she said, her voice so smooth that it flowed like the mellow wine in his glass. "I've lost my appetite. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go take a bath."

She stood, carefully and silently folding her napkin before laying it beside her plate. "Maybe the warm water will thaw me."

With that parting shot, she was out of the kitchen, her steps not quite as measured as he was sure she'd hoped. When he heard the distinct slamming of a door, he let out a long suffering sigh and tossed his napkin on the table as well. Hell, he hadn't meant to run her off. He'd just meant to…to what? He certainly could have been more tactful, even though that wasn't his normal modus operandi. But, damn, he hadn't thought she would be so easily hurt by his honesty. She hadn't seemed like the type of person who would appreciate mealy mouthed lies and platitudes. Clearly he'd been wrong.

"Bloody hell," he sighed, shoving his way back from the table.

Restless, he made his way to the living room, the warm glow of the fire playing over his scowling face and equally dark outfit. With a huff of frustration, he flung himself down on the couch closest to the front door, summarily plopping his socked feet on the coffee table. His phone vibrated on the table and his brother's smiling face appeared on the screen.

"I'm not in the mood," he growled into the device.

"So I hear, brother, so I hear," Liam said with no attempt to hide his amusement. "I'm going to guess this has something to do with a call that my lovely wife is on at the moment. With someone named Emma Swan."

"Are you kidding me?" Killian asked, staring skyward in his third silent conversation with God about irony and punishment. "How do you even know that she's…"

"Well, it's the second call of the day and the third of the week. Seems you have left quite an impression on the author. But from your tone and the way my wife is trying to talk her down right now, I'd say you've been a right proper prat to her and blew it. Would I be right?"

***AAA***

Killian awoke suddenly, his heart beating wildly against his ribs as he shot upwards and stared at the darkened and shadowy room. After two hours on the phone with his brother, only three quarters of it talking about Emma, he had lain awake and stared at the ceiling in hopes that it might offer his answer. His vacation was more of a forced leave of absence after he had verbally berated a client whose dream of a private yacht included elements that would make it sink to the bottom of even a swimming pool. Tough but patient, Liam had told him that there was no room for his anger in their business and he needed to find a way to cope.

Rolling to his side and seeing the snow sticking in large piles to window sills, he marveled when such sights had failed to evoke a single emotion in him. He could say it was beautiful, but felt nothing in terms of awe and wonder. It had not been a sight in nature that had brought that part of him to the surface again. Instead it was Emma Swan. An Emma Swan who had gone to bed that night cursing his name and probably planning an escape from their snowy entrapment.

He felt like a complete ass. That was the only way to describe it, as it was accurate. He was impressed with her, drawn to not only her beauty but the fiery nature that she kept hidden behind what she saw as responsibility and obligation. Though every fiber of him was telling him to run, he was still feeling a strong desire to pull open the cage she was locking herself in by trying to please her adoptive mother, a man who wanted to be her boyfriend yet didn't know her truly, and a son she seemed ready to drop everything to please.

He had insulted her writing twice, though he had not really meant to do that. From what he had read of her writing, he was completely impressed with her skills and talents. And he also found himself fascinated by the woman who appeared so untouchable and yet yearned for more. He began to wonder if he could convince her to stay just a bit longer, despite his brutish manners toward her. He found himself needing to figure out the puzzle that was Emma Swan. He let his mind travel through a few scenarios that included locking her in her room to throwing himself at her feet and apologizing. Only Mother Nature seemed to be cooperating, as he learned as he stood to pace and saw that the snow had multiplied from two inches to nearly two feet.

No, Emma wasn't going anywhere. She was going to be there with him in that cabin, sharing it with him, and with any luck enjoying his company as much as he enjoyed hers. He was going to find out who Emma Swan truly was.

***AAA***

"Why is he English now?" Mary Margaret asked in that sincerely inquisitive tone that she usually reserved for small children or simple minds. "When you sent me the first couple of chapters, the guy wasn't English, but you just spent the night re-writing and suddenly your blonde haired and brown eyed hero is an Englishman with dark hair and stubble. Can't your editor wonder why you're making corrections on something that really didn't need it?"

Emma yawned, staring back at her laptop that had gotten quite a workout when she couldn't sleep. "Well, I…" She fumbled for the right words. It was too cliché that she was falling for the incredibly handsome and yet brooding man who she was sharing a home with last night. Mary Margaret would love to hear it, but it wasn't very Emma-like. "Wait, how did you read that already? Why weren't you asleep?"

Her editor chuckled, making Emma picture the pixie haired woman with the phone tucked against her shoulder and her baby on the other hip as she flipped pancakes and her husband squeezed fresh orange juice. That was the kind of person she was, the kind of couple they portrayed.

"Leo's had a little bit of an ear infection and I was up most of the night rocking him. I got bored with Good Night Moon and Dr. Seuss so I read your latest. By the way it settled Leo down."

"Great, my work puts babies to sleep," Emma said with a roll of her eyes. "I'm glad I could be of service."

"Emma, you're not answering my question. I sent you to the mountains to be inspired and it seems you have been. That's great. Is it too much that I ask who he is?"

Not sure that she could explain exactly who Killian was, even to herself, she kept her answers vague. Eventually Mary Margaret gave up. Emma stood at her bedroom door, her eyes filled with uncertainty as her hand rested on the doorknob. She cast a quick, furtive glance down at her nightgown and bit her full bottom lip. Perhaps she was going a bit too far, she thought. Maybe she shouldn't tempt fate by parading around in front of Killian Jones in a gauzy little knee length nightgown and sheer wrap. They had been a left over in her luggage from a weekend trip with Walsh that had gone horribly, but her quick packing spree the day before had meant she left her more comfortable pajamas behind at the other cabin.

Killian had wounded her pride last night saying she was frigid. How many times had she heard those words? How many times had she heard it before? Men and women alike always accused her of going through the motions and being more attentive to obligation than desire. She knew she wanted more. Why was she scared of what she truly wanted?

She let out a disgusted sigh and wrinkled her nose. Why was she having this argument with herself? It was like preaching to the choir. Then it dawned on her: she was procrastinating because she was scared of going outside that door. But why in the world should she be afraid? Killian was only a man. A good looking man, true, and one that had neatly lacerated her the evening before with his words, but still he was just a man. So, she would go in there, flash a little skin, throw him off guard with her outfit, and get in a few good verbal blows before she left. It would give her a sense of satisfaction to see his face, to smack him with thinly veiled, and very caustic, remarks.

She felt guilty about trying this, but she wasn't staying. She'd pack her belongings and be back in her own cabin my lunch. Elsa's story of Killian's lost love had been tragic, but she didn't know if she could keep from punching him if he tried to insult her again. Maybe this was unfair of her to be so cruel about his feelings, she thought with a glance to where her jeans were sitting folded and a t-shirt was next to them.

"No, he thinks I'm some ice queen with an attitude. The least I can do is show him that…" She stopped her verbal monologue and wondered. What exactly was she trying to prove? How as this revenge?

Taking a deep breath, she put her chin in the air and took a decisive step out of her bedroom.

***AAA***

Killian was just whipping the batter for waffles when he heard her approach. He had decided on a plan of action that would toss Emma off kilter - and put him exactly where he wanted to be. Kindness, he'd thought, would be the last thing she expected. He would astound her with niceness; smother her with it until she wasn't sure what to do. And he would take advantage of her uncertainty by asking questions, easy questions, gentle questions, that he was sure would evoke responses. Above all he would be honest; he wouldn't be able to help himself. After all, it was his nature. But he could temper that with a softness she wouldn't be expecting. Why it mattered to him that she saw him as more than just an angry man, he wasn't sure. But he was determined that she see past that just as he was seeing past her tepid reactions to most everything when she thought someone was looking. Breakfast, he'd decided, would be the perfect beginning to his plan.

Expertly whipping the ingredients in a thick, glass bowl, he kept his eyes down as she rounded the corner. Let her come to me, he thought, and then he'd start her day with a smile. He listened as her bare feet quietly struck the warm tile then turned, a grin planted firmly on his face. He almost dropped the whisk and his jaw.

She was standing there like a sexy, curvy angel. Her blonde hair was free, billowing down her back and around her face, her body sheathed in a satin white gown and nearly see through robe that should have been illegal. The slightly flared ends of the gown and wrap swirled just above her knees, accentuated her drool invoking legs. Her face, free of make-up and still flushed from sleep, was angelically sensuous, a combination that wreaked havoc with his entire nervous system.

Just what the hell was she about, he wondered. Was she trying to kill him, or entice him? Or was she making some sort of point that he had no clue about?

"I, uh, I'll just grab some cereal…" she said, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. He nearly fell to his knees.

Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, as if she, too, were confused about something, before she made a move for the cabinets. Her scent drifted to him, roses with a musky depth, and he almost didn't catch the groan that rose in his throat. He stood, unable to do anything but, until he realized that she had a bowl in her hands.

"I…I was making waffles," he said lamely, trying his damnedest to look away. "There's plenty for two."

Emma struggled to keep her breathing even as she avoided his eyes. When he had looked at her a moment before she'd gotten the exact reaction she'd been hoping for, and something more. Something disturbing. Something she hadn't been expecting.

She had reacted to him. Her blood had gone hot, her skin prickling with such awareness that it had suddenly felt too tight, too painful. His eyes had practically devoured her, and she hadn't minded in the least when her entire body had swelled with pleasure. That initial punch of smug satisfaction had quickly bled into sheer female delight, knowing that a handsome man was studying her, taking her in…having a fantasy about her. It had startled her, and worse, it had sent her system humming. She was very afraid that she didn't have the same control over the situation as she'd initially thought.

"You don't like waffles?" he asked her gently, as if he were afraid she'd bound back to her room or start screaming like a demented woman. Of course, she couldn't blame him for his caution after yesterday's incident.

"No, no, I like waffles," she told him, absently sliding the bowl back into its place. "You didn't have to make me breakfast, you know. I have to go and re-pack. I was talking to Elsa last night and she mentioned that the grocer in town does deliver for a fee. Plus it can't be that hard to get to the lodge for some meals. I mean the power seems to be holding out so far. I appreciate the offer of letting me stay with you." She reached her hand out and knocked softly on the wood wall. "I just think it would be better if…"

"Aye, about that…I'm sorry, Emma, but I don't think you're going anywhere," he said, sparing her a quick, soft glance before turning to start the waffle iron heating.

She bristled at his statement, then forced herself to calm down. Killian couldn't demand she stay here; he couldn't very well kidnap her and hold her here against her will. He had to know that, and so jumping to that conclusion would only cause another verbal war. And no matter how much she itched at this moment to bite into him, she wasn't going to give him that much of her energy. Not when she was still so addled by her reaction to him. She couldn't be sure exactly what would come out of her mouth.

"I assure you that I can take care of myself. Despite what you may think, Killian."

Killian, he thought, not that cold Mr. Jones. It was a good sign.

"This has nothing to do with me, love," he told her conversationally as he poured a ladle full of batter onto the iron. "Take a look outside."

Curious, she sent him a sideways glance before moving around him. As she approached the tall glass windows beside the table, she realized the air was becoming chillier. Strange, she thought, but then it had been a bit frosty the previous evening and two inches of snow was hardly an issue. When she finally focused her gaze outside, she let out a little gasp.

"When did all that happen?!"

"Most of the day yesterday into the night, and it's not through with us yet. The local channel," he continued, nodding toward the softly playing radio, "says we're in for more in just a couple of hours. Everything is at a standstill right now, including the airport. And we," he concluded, giving her an even stare, "are stuck up here until the salt trucks can get to us. Ruby and Dorothy called before to check on us. Even their four-wheel drive vehicle is not doing much of a job traversing these roads in this condition, so I'm sure there will be no grocery deliveries either. I assured them that we are fine though."

Her heart leapt, her blood pounded and her limbs turned to near jelly. Frustration, she assured herself quickly. It was simple frustration over the fact that she was snowed in with a perfect stranger. Alone. By themselves.

"I…I'm sorry," she replied, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "I know you wanted the place to yourself."

He gave her an eloquent shrug before easily lifting on perfect waffle onto a thick, white plate.

"We'll make do," he told her, then sent her a wide smile. "I'll talk you into a video game, maybe into watching some football, and you can toss pillows at me when you don't get your way. It'll be fine."

Her eyes narrowed on him as she tried to place his sudden change. He was being awfully friendly, especially after last night. Had he simply had enough time to resign himself to the facts? Had he decided that his energy and effort would be better spent relaxing than being a cocky s.o.b.? Or was there something else going on? Something she wasn't aware of?

"I'll have breakfast ready in a couple of minutes. You, uh, you might want to go change into something warmer." Like a nun's habit, he thought, or the flannel he had seen her looking so adorable in that covered her from head to toe. Anything that wouldn't make him go desperately weak.

"I didn't pack many winter clothes. I wasn't really expecting this," she told him, her bare toes curling against the heated tile. "Does your cabin have a washer and dryer?"

In an effort to keep his eyes from her delectable cleavage, he looked down at her feet…and wanted to curse all over again. They were perfect, the soft skin delicately tanned, and her toenails were painted a brazen, heart stopping red. He shouldn't find it sexy. But he did. Oh, God help him, he did.

"Um, there are some flannel shirts hanging in my room, last door on the left. You're more than welcome to borrow one," he offered, hoping that having her covered would keep his brain from a complete melt down. "And yes there is a washer just off the kitchen here."

"Thanks," she said, suspicious. If he was playing a game, it was damn good one. And the only way to know exactly what he hoped to gain was to play along. "I'll go get dressed."

He watched her leave, letting out a deep breath when she disappeared into his room of all places. The woman was going to give him a heart attack, and he was afraid he'd die with a smile on his face before he could even touch her. Absently, he poured more batter into the griddle and closed the lid, silently bringing himself back under control as he thought of his next plan of attack.

It was over breakfast that he admitted to having purchased and read her book, still not letting her in on how he had read it like some people ate junk food. She could only stare at him. Her mind froze for a moment, the surprised look on her face giving him a moment's pleasure. He'd tossed her for a loop. Good. She should be a little wary. Heaven knew she probably needed someone in her life to shake her up. Of course, part of his pleasure came from the fact that he felt a small measure of vengeance. After all, no one should be allowed to look that damned good in blue flannel, _his_ blue flannel, damn it. The thought of his clothing on her body, touching her, covering all those gorgeous curves, sent tiny shock waves through his blood, to his groin, and out his toes.

"You," she said, staring at the stack of waffles on her plate, "read my book."

"It was good," he said between bites. "I found myself liking the characters, especially your antagonist. He wasn't like other big bads in most stories. You made him human and relatable."

That statement stopped her cold. She glared at him, the wind in her sails fading as she read the sincerity in his handsome face. Most people never understood the need for a good villain, one that was mean, even misled, but one that, in a way, embodied all those dark, quiet fears that people held over from childhood. The boogeyman and Prince Charming all rolled into one. "You like a serial killer?" she asked incredulously.

"Love, I didn't say I thought I was him. I just said that the way you wrote it made me think of him as more human. It was an interesting and effective touch in a genre that doesn't usually contain such great characterization." He spooned a bit of fresh whipped cream onto both of their stacks of waffles. "He's incredible," Killian replied, forgetting his waffles as he leaned toward her. "The way he thinks he's being used as God's instrument to not kill but free the souls of all those women. I just became invested in him, and I normally don't with the antagonist."

"You understand him?" she choked out.

He nodded, then continued. "Aye, and the lead characters…perfect. A strong female detective, an ex-Catholic priest running a horse farm…it's amazing. I've decided, love, that it must quite an adventure walking around in your head."

She watched him carefully for any sign of a lie or a falsehood; but she saw none. He was telling her the truth. He had read her book, and it wasn't the clichés or the sex scenes he wanted to talk about. It was the true meat of the story, the actual plot line and character development she'd worked so hard to create. She almost asked him to pinch her.

He gave her a devilish smile before taking another bite of his waffles. With a little nod, he encouraged her to dig in as well. Before she knew it, she was filling her stomach with the most delicious tasting breakfast she'd had in a very long time. Over their food, they discussed her new story and he tried to probe her for hints as to who the killer was. She merely smiled at him and told him over and over that once he found out, he'd realize all the clues he'd missed. He told her that he looked forward to reading it.

Suddenly an hour had passed, and she found herself relaxed and chuckling as they cleared the table. He watched her with scrutinizing eyes, absorbing her laugh and the way her face glowed when she smiled. She was a very different person underneath that façade she wore. He found he liked this Emma very much.

She was turning from the sink, her mind blissfully full of good conversation and scandalous childhood tales of Killian and Liam. She didn't realize he was so close until it was too late. He was just there, in front of her, his gaze fixed on her lips. She felt her throat close tight, her eyes widening as swirling emotions met. He was staring at her mouth, looking as if he wanted to devour her in several long, delicious bites. She knew she couldn't - wouldn't - stop him if he did.

He'd only meant to tell her that she had a smudge of whipped cream at the corner of her lips. He hadn't meant to stare. He'd meant to make a glib comment and move away. But the moment his eyes landed on those ripe strawberry lips, he couldn't look away. He could barely breathe. Cautiously, he lifted his fingertip to her mouth, softly scooping the sweet topping from her flesh. But he didn't stop there. His finger moved over her lips, tenderly tracing the delicate outline, the pad of his finger absorbing the electric shocks that blasted into his body and straight to his loins.

He had to taste her. Suddenly, it seemed like the most important thing in the world to him. He wanted to feel her mouth move under his, savor her flavor as she participated in their embrace.

His mouth descended on hers, giving her a moment to pull away if she wanted. She didn't. His lips brushed hers once, twice, tasting, experimenting. When she was sure she would die from anticipation, he claimed her more fully, pulling at her lips with long, slow, torturous tugs. She moaned deep in her throat and melted into him, giving back.

He thought his knees might collapse, bringing them both to the kitchen floor. It wouldn't matter. They could be standing waist deep in a snowdrift and it wouldn't have stopped this kiss. Then she was leaning into him, her arms snaking slowly around his neck. He let out a slow, agonized groan as he sank his fingers into her hips, holding her to him as his tongue reached out to sweep inside her mouth.

She trembled when she felt his tongue, a quake of longing and awakening. She touched her own tongue to his, met him, tangled with him, laved and played. It was a slow, sensuous fall that she was taking, drowning in sensations that were like sun warmed silk. She wanted more…and so she took.

He felt her deepen the kiss and went with her, his mouth opening wider as their tongues mated. His body was in the middle of a slow brushfire, the heat scorching him from the inside out. He had to stop. He had to pull away before he dragged her to the bedroom, laid her on his bed, and showed her just how wickedly good those scenes in her book could really be. But not yet, it was too soon.

Gently, he pulled away from her, carefully easing his mouth from hers, keeping their bodies firmly adhered as he gentled then stopped the kiss. He wanted her to understand just how much she'd affected him and he didn't want her to be able to deny the fact. Tenderly, he smoothed her hair from her cheek, his breathing harsh as he looked down at her face. He saw her soft, hazy look and smiled.

"You had whipped cream on your lips," he rasped.

"Huh? Oh, oh, whipped cream," she said, almost incoherent. She wanted to ask what he would have done if she'd had whipped cream on her neck and shoulder as well. "You perform one of the oldest tropes out there and I'm the romance writer?"

She couldn't know the way the look on her face was tempting him. Her eyes were wide and bright, her lips gently parted in invitation, her silky skin rosy from arousal. If he didn't turn away right now he was afraid he'd do something that would only obliterate the step he'd just built with her.

"Glad to know I'm good at the classics. I think I'll go stoke the fire," he told her softly. "Then maybe we can tackle the New York Time's crossword puzzle together."

It sounded like heaven, she thought, and gazed after him as he left. Languidly, she turned to the dishwasher just beside the sink and began absently loading the dishes. Maybe this little excursion to the mountains wouldn't end so badly after all, she thought, then smiled to herself. A few heady, happy memories to accompany her back to Boston was definitely something she wouldn't scoff at. And if he were playing with her, well, she'd know soon enough; but until then, she'd enjoy whatever it was that he was willing to give her…and she wouldn't be afraid to take. After all, she wasn't about to make the ultimate in stupid mistakes and fall in love with him. She simply wouldn't risk that much of herself again.

 ** _See…I warned you this chapter was a long one. I hope you are enjoying their flirtation and their struggles to not allow themselves to be vulnerable enough to get hurt again. Killian is on his best behavior, which you'll see play out more next chapter. As another warning, I'm going all in on the typical romance tropes with this one. Who knows what I'll pull out my pocket next._**

 ** _So drop me a line and let me know what you thought? Too much? Not enough? Are you liking the long distance matchmaking?_**


	4. Chapter 4 - Day of Fun

**_Here's another installment of this fic. I just love this little side to these two characters. They certainly do seem to be learning to like each other a whole lot._**

 ** _Thank you again for the comments, suggestions, and whatnot. Today is looking up a little so help me keep that momentum, pretty please._**

"Mom, it's pretty cool. We saw whale sharks, and there was a dolphin show too. Dad said that maybe over the summer he can rent us a boat and we can go sailing. I'd like that, you know." Her son was in a good mood after a trip to the aquarium, which certainly helped the separation. "Maybe you could go with us?"

"I think that would be a better father son thing," she said, not adding that she doubted Neal would remember his promise come summer. He wasn't exactly reliable on such things, especially promises.

An eternal optimist, Henry always seemed to have hope that his parents would reconcile or she would marry Walsh so that he could have a mom and dad in the same home. She wasn't sure where he got that hopeful nature, as he was the product of two of the most cynical people ever. But he marched to his own drummer and tried to get her to follow along.

"So when is Ingrid picking you up?" Neal had said he could not possibly care for a 10 year old boy for two whole weeks, though she wondered what it was he thought she did every week. So her mother had readily agreed to take Henry to school and fix his meals for the rest of the time.

"Tomorrow," Henry confirmed. "She said we're having dinner with Walsh. Are you okay with that?" Add perceptive to the list of words that describe her son, she thought.

"Walsh and I may be taking a break from things, but that doesn't mean…"

Her son quickly changed the subject to tell her about some funny incident at school with kids playing basketball with various lunch room items. She pretended that it made her interested, but the whole thing sounded pretty gross. Finally, he was ready to go someplace with his dad and she wished him well.

"I miss you," he admitted. "But good luck with your book."

After three goodbyes, a few I love yous, and an air kiss into her phone, she fell back against the couch, her head draped sleepily on the armrest and her body curled under a throw blanket that Killian had commented was knitted by Granny Lucas herself. She could hear him in the kitchen cleaning up after their dinner of his left over stew and canned biscuits that she had heated.

With the sounds of another round of wind and inclement weather settling in outside, she was snuggly in the living room under her throw with a thick pair of socks on her feet and his shirt over her turtleneck. The fire was cracking and popping away, never having a chance to die down under his watchful eye.

Yawning due to her comfortable position and full belly, she clicked on the television and surfed through a few channels before settling on a classic movie station. Soon she was engrossed in watching Cary Grant work his way through a brilliant performance, no thoughts at all of the blinking cursor on her computer in her bedroom. To be honest she was doing more writing than she had planned and was ahead. Mary Margaret had been pleased so far.

She couldn't recall a time when she had been this relaxed and carefree. Even the so called lazy Sundays at home with Walsh had meant him trying to get rid of some of her hand me down furniture for his custom pieces. It seemed to her that he was never able to just sit and enjoy anything, always wanting to fix and change things that didn't suit him. She wasn't even sure that anything did suit him, as he never did manage to find anything acceptable.

Killian was different, she reasoned. Yes, he challenged her to do what she wanted and write the things she liked. But he didn't push or demand it because of his own preferences. Each and every discussion they had was based around his desire to know more and learn more about her. And if she had to describe how she felt with him around, the word she would have chosen was safe. Most people put her on edge, but Killian managed to break past that. He wasn't boring by any means or even predictable.

She had expected him to be a bit more hardnosed than he was. But that morning as they had worked on the crossword puzzle together, he had made her laugh. His vocabulary was leaps and bounds better than most, but still he made ludicrous suggestions about the clues could possibly mean. In the end, he cheated and made up words that left her chortling away and falling against his chest to stifle the uncontrollable laughter.

He even coaxed her into a card game of poker, grousing elaborately when she won his house in Storybrooke, the boat he was restoring, his jeep, the rights to fantasy soccer team, and a collectors' edition of a comic book that he had procured and she had heard Henry mention liking. Not that she was going to take him up on it, but they played for high stakes. Unlike Neal or Walsh, he had not seemed at all upset at her victories, making her wonder if he was letting her win. However, after a slow first hand where she had showed her prowess, he had fought back. Still, he seemed proud of her and fell into his own fit of laughter that almost had him falling off the chair when she won hand after hand.

Claiming that she had won the shirt off his back, he had left her fixing grilled cheese for lunch as he found a soccer game on television. Missing 10 minutes of it to lecture her on its name – football – he had settled in for a display of his own with yelling at the players as though he was standing on the sidelines himself. He was nothing if not passionate about it, rubbing off on Emma as she tried to figure out the nuances and he explained them to her between shouts. When she chose to root for the opposing team just to spite him, his prediction came true of her pummeling him with pillows and her vocabulary increased to include quite a few British slang terms. He had continued to joke that he couldn't take her to a football game with her exuberant passion for being his opposite. They were likely to get arrested.

She laughed at that, though inside she wondered if he was seriously aware of what he had just said. He was talking about them outside of the cabin like it was something that would come to pass. She didn't comment, much too taken aback by the casual way he spoke it. It had taken her a good five minutes to convince herself that he'd just been joking, nothing more than teasing. Still, it had given her heart a little jolt, one that had it jarring in her chest.

Then there was the elephant in the room – the kiss. It had been a single kiss, but one that was not as simple to explain away as just a joke. It was just one kiss, not a commitment by any means or a bond. She was sure that he felt the same in that regard. And yet there was a small part of her that had wanted to tell him how much she had truly enjoyed the day with him. If someone had been watching, they would have assumed she and Killian were a couple, a happy couple, and that the sleet and snow had served only to keep them in their cozy retreat. Maybe it was the way he curled his arm over her shoulder so they could both look at the crossword puzzle. Or the way he had winked at her and cheered for her when she won at hands of poker. And then there was the way he had pulled her legs and feet across his thighs when they were watching the game, feeding her chips even after the grilled cheese was gone.

Those pictures of them in her mind had imprinted firmly and left her with an indelible ache for it to be real. It was not that he had done a 180, as he still seemed just as prickly at times. But she was seeing a bit of the man beneath that façade and she liked him. She liked the joking and playful banter. She liked the feeling of belonging. Since she was a child she had wanted a home, more than just a place though. Ingrid had provided that in a way. She was grateful for that. Even Henry provided that for her, which she hoped she did in return. For a moment or maybe more, she felt it with Killian. Those feelings rose up to meet her now, knotting in her stomach, squeezing her heart, tightening her lungs. No, no, no, she told herself firmly. She was not going to let her mind go down that path. She barely knew the man in the kitchen. How could her subconscious even begin to form such thoughts about a stranger?

But this afternoon he had not felt like a stranger at all – more like a friend. He chatted, joked, and enjoyed her company. She enjoyed his too, maybe too much. The more she considered their actions, the more she wondered if he was about to set her up for some big fall or even a passionate seduction. It wouldn't take much, she had to admit to herself. The crook of his finger or the rise of one of his thick eyebrows that seemed so expressive, and she would have been across the room and in his arms before her name could fully form on his lips. She figured a few more kisses, maybe a little groping, and then he'd figure out she wasn't what he wanted. She wasn't like the wanton sex goddesses she wrote about or created. She was just a woman, plain and simple. But, boy, if his hands were as half as good as his mouth, she would have quite a lot to build on in her lonely nights. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't see whom she was until after he'd taken her to bed. Then she'd have plenty of fodder for her fantasies.

This was insane, she thought, sitting bolt upright on the couch. She was actually considering a blazing affair with a man she'd just met. She was never, never, this careless or reckless. She wasn't thinking of it like a one night stand. She'd had several of those. No, she knew he was more than that. And she should be scared of that. But something about Killian called to her. Something about him, the something that made her yearn, stirred up physical awareness that she normally kept well boxed away. It was unnerving, it was confusing, and it was exciting as hell. It was like the monster roller coaster at the amusement park that you were afraid to ride as a kid. Then one day you worked up the nerve to stand in line, waiting, sick with anticipation, as the line crept forward. Stuck in the cue line waiting for the roller coaster that was named Killian Jones. The question was, would the ride be as good as advertised, or would she end up terrified, screaming, and, in the end, crying her heart out?

***AAA***

Killian dug through the cabinets, gathering ingredients as his mind ran wild with thoughts of the woman in the living room. It had been an enlightening day. She had relaxed around him, laughing freely, soundly kicking his butt at poker, and thoroughly enjoying his defeat.

And then there had been the game. He'd seen that passion rise in her, channeled toward a sporting event this time, and he'd been fascinated. It was obvious she had a streak of passion a mile wide, but she only let it show when she felt comfortable enough. She needed to feel safe, somehow he'd inherently understood that, and so he'd given it to her. Small steps – baby steps – that was the way to go with Emma. And he'd move just as slowly as he needed to - for the time being at least. The weather seemed to be cooperating with him. It had rained down snow and then another round of ice off and on all afternoon, and they were in for more tonight and tomorrow. With the plummeting temperatures and clouds in the foreseeable future, he felt like he'd been granted the gift of time. Tonight he would find out more about her.

He would ask questions, easy questions, and he'd be careful to feel out her reactions. If she withdrew, he'd take a step back. If she warmed to the subject, he'd delve deeper. And if she started a fight…well, then, he'd just have to end it. God knew he'd thought of dozens of pleasurable ways to occupy her mouth and direct her anger. Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to will away the vicious pressure that had suddenly built against his jeans. While Emma hadn't shied away from his arousal earlier, he wasn't going to tempt fate. Not yet. What he had planned involved more finesse than his fantasy of striding into the living room, climbing on top of her and ravishing her right there on the leather couch. With a determined tick of his jaw, he gathered the paraphernalia he'd found and made his way into the other room, hoping that he could control his libido for the night.

Emma heard him come into the room and turned her head his way, her eyes widening when she saw his arms filled with food. "What are you doing?" she asked, watching him as he settled in front of the fireplace.

"S'mores," he said, his hands busy open packages.

"What?"

He turned for a moment, a smile on his face and in his eyes. "Didn't your family ever go camping?"

"I don't have a family," she replied distractedly, watching as he unwrapped a Hershey's bar. "Just my mom and now my son. And don't even bother asking, I've never taken my son on a camping trip."

To his credit, Killian kept himself from flinching…just. She didn't have a family. And the way she'd said it, so off handedly, as if it weren't that big of a deal, told him that she'd been orphaned from a very young age. Possibly even at birth. "Well, then, it will be my pleasure to introduce you to the very best gooey dessert ever invented by man," he commented lightly, working on pulling the marshmallow bag open. "My brother used to make these. Only sodding thing he could cook as a lad."

Emma lifted an eyebrow dubiously. "I don't know, caramel Godiva chocolates are hard to beat."

"Ah, but you've never had a s'more," he pointed out, finally beckoning her over. She climbed off the couch and readily joined him, taking the long, thin wire that he offered her. "Okay, first, we toast the marshmallows. I'm assuming you know how to do that?"

If he'd asked her about that mockingly, or even with a hint of derision, she would have become angry. But he'd asked it so matter-of-factly that she found herself nodding.

"Good. Okay, now, we toast them," he said again, spearing two fluffy clumps on her wire. "And when you get them perfect, we'll go to the next step."

She smiled and turned to hold the marshmallows over the hot fire, her eyes dancing at the simple pleasure of sharing a childish moment with him. She heard his hand sifting into the bag, then saw his marshmallows join hers over the flames. While she was occupied, he asked casually, "So, if you didn't camp when you were a kid, what did you do?"

"Sang, read, studied," she answered. "Avoided people."

"Wow, you must have been Miss Straightlace," he teased, slowly rotating the wire in his hand.

"Um, not exactly," she chuckled, checking her marshmallows, then putting them back in the fire. "I grew up in foster homes and orphanages, so there really wasn't anyone that I had a chance to get close to. Besides, I was always the odd kid out. I learned how to duck when I could and fight back when I couldn't. Then I got placed with Ingrid. She's been great, but by that time childhood was over and it was time to figure out who I wanted to be in this world. Plus there was the whole getting pregnant at 17 with Henry thing."

He kept his eyes on the fireplace, careful not to let her see his expression. He couldn't imagine a childhood like that, so devoid of relationships and bonds. While it was true he'd spent most of his formative years without a mother, he'd at least had a brother and an absentee father, however much he'd despised it, and a home to visit during vacations.

"What about you? What did you do when you were a kid?" she asked, grabbing his attention. Easy, he reminded himself. Gentle, slow, step by step; keep it light. Don't show her the pity or she'll toss that icy wall up again. "I played sports, drove my brother mad with my antics, terrorized my teachers," he told her with a fond smile. "And I still found time to make s'mores."

"Lucky boy," she said, noting the wistfulness that had seeped into her voice. Hoping she could make her wistfulness into a joke, she continued, "When I met Elsa and Anna I was jealous. I always wanted a brother or a sister. Though I probably would have terrorized them too, especially Anna. I would have…I don't know…pulled her braids or something."

He stopped, gave her a puzzled look, then burst into laughter. "She makes you that crazy?"

"Sometimes, yes. But Elsa can be worse. Especially when she starts lecturing me about my life," Emma complained. "Or my lack of."

"You don't have a life? I'm surprised by that," he said honestly. "I can't imagine someone like you not having friends and a packed schedule of parties."

She narrowed her eyes as she studied him, watching the firelight illuminate the angles of his face. "Just last night you accused me of being frigid."

"That's before I really thought about your book."

Her back went poker straight and he could feel her draw away. Wrong thing to say, he thought, but he sure as hell wasn't going to tiptoe around facts. She needed to learn to deal with them, especially where he was involved. "See, there you go, jumping to conclusions," he said smoothly before rescuing her marshmallows by pulling her hand back from the fire. "Your book only showed me in a few hours what it would have taken me a full day to realize."

"It didn't change the way you think about me?" she asked, her eyes chilled over. But he saw that small flame of pain and hope, the one that she couldn't hide from him anymore.

"Aye, it did," he told her candidly. "It showed me that I was wrong, very wrong, in assuming that you didn't really feel. You do feel, Emma, and I'm betting that you probably feel too much. It's probably damn overwhelming when you let yourself open up."

She stared at him, the ice in her eyes cracking into rivulets of panic. He'd nailed her, he thought, and she was probably terrified that he'd use his knowledge to hurt her. She couldn't know just how very much he wanted to tuck her in his arms right now and protect her from her own fears. "Now, let's make the s'mores before the marshmallows get cold," he said gently.

Emma swallowed, tearing her gaze away from his. Absently, she stared down at the open package of chocolate that lay between them. She took one breath, two, calming her rioting system as she fought back the uncertainty that had suddenly swamped her. He'd found a very deep crack in her being, he'd pointed it out, then he'd stepped away. It would have almost been better had he stayed there to battle it out. Instead, he'd given her space, precious space, and now she was more confused than she could ever remember being. Carefully, Killian reminded himself. Tread carefully, move slowly, let her see what you know and then let her contemplate it. A full out attack on her would be more damaging than hit and run tactics, no matter how much he wanted to have a knock down drag out fight that culminated in another barrier shattering kiss.

"Here, take some graham crackers," he instructed, holding the flat cookies out to her. She blinked several times, clearing her vision as the rectangular package was shoved under her nose.

"How…how many?" He ignored the stutter as if it hadn't happened. It would wound her if he acknowledged her weakness right now.

"Just take a couple. A s'more is like a sandwich, love."

"A sandwich?" she asked, watching as Killian took graham crackers for himself.

"A very gooey, very delicious sandwich," he elaborated, sending her a mischievous smile. "Now, first, you take some squares of the chocolate bar, like this," he demonstrated, breaking off some dark brown squares. "Then you put it on one of the crackers, like so. Next you bring your marshmallows over, put them between the graham crackers, pull the stick out…and, viola!" he announced, holding up his creation. "A s'more!"

She couldn't stop the slow smile that glided across her lips. His look, so boyish and so brightly happy, helped to ease the last of the tension from her body. Scooting closer to him, she made her s'more exactly as he'd shown her. He waited until she was done, then, with great reverence, he took the first bite of the homemade treat. She laughed when he rolled his eyes in ecstasy, then tried her own. It was like heaven exploding in her mouth.

"Didn't I tell you?" he said, grinning at her reaction. They sat for another half an hour, chatting easily, making more s'mores as icy sleet began to patter the roof and windows again. When they were on the last square of chocolate, they both eyed it, then each other, before both lunging for it. Emma was faster.

"Hey, come on, you have to share," he chided as he laughed.

"Share chocolate? I don't think so, buddy," she teased, wrapping her fist firmly around the flat cube. "You'll just have to suffer."

"Oh, I don't think so." She saw his intent and stood to run, laughing as she raced around the couch, through the kitchen, and back around to the fireplace. He was right behind her, enjoying the sound of her giggles as he pursued her. Finally, she was forced to dodge the box of crackers that had fallen on the floor. It gave him the opportunity to grab her around the waist and gently bring her down to the throw rug in front of the hearth.

"Alright, Swan, you've been caught. Now you have to share," he told her, his breathing heavy as he smiled down at her.

"No way," she denied, shaking her head as she grinned back. He gave a mock snarl and pulled her closed fist to his face. Tickling her knuckles with the stubble on his jaw, he waited until she reflexively opened her hand to take action. He saw that the chocolate was mostly melted now, coating her palm and fingers. Without thinking, he ran his tongue up her hand, laving the rich candy from her skin.

She jerked in reaction, her breath catching as tiny explosions rent through her arm and cascaded out to her blood. Her stomach clenched and coiled, her muscles tensing as heat roiled in her veins. He stopped, as if he'd only realized what he'd done. When his eyes met hers, she found herself mesmerized by the look of sheer need that covered his features. Slowly, his gaze still on hers, he brought her hand back to his mouth. With one long, deliberate swipe, he brought his tongue up the expanse of her palm, following the lines of her fingers. She knew he could see the desire that was, amazingly, erupting inside of her. It was like hot lava, oozing into her system.

"Emma," he breathed a mere second before his mouth fell to hers.

She welcomed him eagerly, her lips parting immediately, begging for more. And then it was more; it was deeper, it was hotter. His tongue savaged her mouth, demanding that she give to him what he gave to her. They plunged and delved, stroked and speared, tasting and nipping as her body became enflamed with restless need. He felt her quiver beneath him, knew she was tumbling just as freely and quickly as he was.

He growled deep in his throat, far from playful, full of the desire that was clawing him with vicious intent. She tasted like chocolate and sweetness, like passion and raw need. Her body twisted beneath his, rocketing more searing currents through him that jabbed straight into his libido as he held her. He had to touch her. It was as desperate a need as any he'd ever had. Just one touch, just one, he promised, then he'd let her go.

She thought she might melt through the floor. Her whole body seemed to be on fire, the flow of the flames and embers running swiftly into Killian. Their mouths were fused, their bodies locked together, his hand caressing her breast with agonizing tenderness. She followed where he led, not caring about anything but the passion he was eliciting. He felt her bow into him and nearly came undone.

His body reacted, moving with her rhythm, creating a long, heated pace as they collided in the mock act of lovemaking. Nipping her lips, he made his way down her jaw to her throat, suckling and biting the tender flesh as she wreathed and bucked. Her taste was intoxicating, her reaction to him more heady than any alcohol or aphrodisiac. He wanted her with a desperation he'd never experienced. He wanted her naked, her fragrant skin slick against his. His fingers reached for the buttons of her shirt, his body setting his mind on an undeniable course.

A thick log in the fireplace popped and fell, scattering ashes and embers. The sound ricocheted through the room like a bullet, the noise smacking Killian back into reality. He realized what he was doing, where his fingers were, what he'd been about to do. And, God, he still wanted to do it. If he thought she wouldn't hate herself in the morning he would. But it was still too soon. She had opened up a bit to him, she had shown him a vulnerable spot, and if he took her now he was afraid she'd blame herself for her weakness, and him for taking advantage.

Emma came to reality slowly, her eyes still glazed with desire as Killian pulled his mouth away from hers. His hand was in her hair now, smoothing it down, soothing her as he rested his forehead against hers. She could still feel him against her, obviously hard and ready, so why had he stopped? Why wasn't he stripping her, touching her, allowing her to do the same to him?

"I know, I know, but we have to stop, love. We have to," he whispered, his voice tinged with pain and frustration.

"But I…I don't understand," she rasped vaguely.

"I'm not sure I do either. And I will probably realize I'm an idiot tomorrow."

"You don't…?" She left off the rest of the question, not even wanting to hear it voiced herself.

The hurt in her question stabbed his heart cleanly. She hadn't been wanted as a child, he thought, so now she must believe she wouldn't be truly wanted as an adult. If she only knew how wrong she was. "I want you so much, Emma, but it's too soon for us."

She didn't know how to respond; she didn't know if she could have even if she'd had the words. Her mind felt heavy, almost numb from the effects of desire.

"Come on, love, I'll tuck you in," he said softly, rolling away from her with infinite care.

She allowed him to pull her up, cradling her head against his shoulder as he led her from the living room. Behind them, Cary Grant was yelling to everyone that he wasn't a Brewster, his life now completely sorted out. She only wished her life was as easy to decipher. At this moment, with Killian's arm around her and his taste still on her mouth, she was very afraid that it would never be simple again.

 ** _Still with me? What do you think? I know Emma is usually seen as the woman who has no issue with the one night stand, but I wanted to write a little deeper than that. I wanted her to look at Killian and realize that she wanted more than that but be scared because her past attempts at that went horribly wrong._**


	5. Chapter 5 - Feelings and Opera

**_Here we go, one more installment. We have two chapters left to go after this one. I hope this chapter flows well for everyone. It is a bit of a struggle to write these two cooped up in a cabin without having them go at it like rabbits, but I'm trying here._**

 ** _Thanks for the comments, questions, and reviews. This is a fun side to write for both characters. I kind of like paying attention to the fact that for Killian he wants more than just a physical relationship with Emma. He is trying to get to know her and understand her, but he of course is wanting that physical side too. With Emma I like writing her as a bit damaged and trying to find that sweet spot between obligation/responsibility and finding her own happiness. I think that is something Emma struggles with on the show, as she is so focused on finding happiness for others that she pushes her own into the background._**

Killian woke the next morning with a slight headache. He'd had vivid, lucid dreams of touching Emma, of tasting her and of taking her. They were just dreams, of course, but his feverish brain couldn't help itself. He couldn't blame his subconscious. God knew he'd fantasized enough about her in the waking world.

Sighing resignedly, he tossed the heavy covers back and sat up on his king sized bed. Above him, he heard another round of sleet as it pinged off the roof and windows. A broad smile played across his mouth as he sent up a silent prayer of gratitude. Another day with Emma, another chance to break down some of her barriers, to find out what and who she was inside that frosty enclosed shield.

But why, his brain whispered. Why wonder? Why get to know her? You only met her a few days ago. Why this need to get inside of her? What was the draw? He'd never been like this before, not with any other woman. He believed in complete honesty, in laying it all out on the table before pursuing any kind of physical relationship. But there were still so many parts of Emma that he didn't know about, so many corners that were shaded and kept from view. She didn't fit neatly into the pigeonhole that he normally slipped his women into. She was different. She was…unique. She was wreaking havoc on his body and his mind. He wanted her; it was as plain as that. But it wasn't as simple as physical need. He didn't know what the hell it was.

All he did understand was that, right now, at this moment, he was filled with thoughts of her, and not just the palm sweating, breath reducing ones, either. He found himself thinking of her smile, and wondering what he could do to draw another one out. He thought of her voice, of the melodic tone, of the prim and proper way she could scold him…and the way she sounded when she laughed. Hell, even those things made him want to go to her room, crawl into her bed, and make slow, easy love to her. She'd jump out the window if he tried that, though. She was far too skittish right now, far too unsure of both him and herself. If he guessed right, when she woke up this morning she would be abusing herself with doubts and lecturing herself about vacation flings. He had to be ready for that. He had to have a plan of attack for today that would keep her from crawling behind her barriers and pushing him away. Rubbing his palm over his still tired eyes, he stared out the window at the steel gray clouds and began to form his strategy.

***AAA***

Emma woke with tender lips and a heat enraged body, the blankets that had been so neatly tucked in around her now tangled with her legs. She'd had a restless night, one filled with erotic dreams that she was afraid to acknowledge and a few attempts to write. And they had all starred the tall, handsome blue-eyed man who had managed to worm his way under her defenses. Letting out a shaky breath, she combed her hair from her eyes with her fingers and began to rub her temples. This, she thought, could not be happening. It was one thing to laugh about the possibilities of a few kisses, maybe a little bit of fondling, but to dream about him…to have him take up her mind even when she was sleeping…it was too much. She couldn't do this. It wasn't safe for her heart, a heart he had so easily found last night. It wasn't fair to her, nor to him, to let their little flirtation go into fantasies.

Flirtation, hell, her mind hummed. She would gladly crawl into his bed and take his body if he gave her even the slightest hint that she would be welcomed there, and that he wouldn't simply toss her onto the pile of his conquests. And she knew that pile had to be pretty damn large, considering the skill he had with seduction. She knew the difference between sex and making love, at least in theory. And there was something about the way that Killian touched her that made her wonder if he was even capable of making it just a physical thing. Even from just a kiss she had been able to tell that he was not the type to just use her and move on. If they had made love last night, if he hadn't stopped what they were doing, she would have been lying there this morning, probably creating some sort of happily ever after with him as her loving partner. What a fool. She remembered the way she'd acted last night, how wanton she'd been, writhing underneath him, practically begging for him to take her. She didn't like being in that position of letting a guy know how much she wanted him, especially a guy like Killian. Letting out a small groan, she buried her face in her hands and tried desperately to block out the rioting images of the few minutes she'd spent on the floor with Killian. She was on the verge of complete mortification when a knock sounded on her door.

"Emma? Emma, can I come in?"

Oh, no…no, no, no, no…it was almost as if her thoughts had conjured him.

"Emma, I know you're awake. I heard you moving around," he continued, his voice lazy with a smile. "Come on, I have a surprise for you."

A surprise. She just bet he had a surprise. Him wrapped in a red bow, she thought derisively, then suppressed the quiver of anticipation that raced up her spine. She opened her mouth to tell him to go away. "Come in," slipped out instead. He opened her door with his socked foot and stood framed in the doorway for a moment, his face bright with a smile. He was dressed in jeans and one of his flannel shirts, this one in various shades of blue. He was also carrying a breakfast tray filled with eggs, bacon, toast and juice. Apparently their night together hadn't affected his appetite.

"I come bearing gifts," he announced as he made his way across the room.

He watched surreptitiously as she slid herself further under the covers, carefully hiding any piece of creamy skin that might entice him. He'd expected as much. He couldn't help but wonder what she'd say if he told her that it was her mouth that tempted him the most. "You…you didn't have to bring me breakfast," she said, her face flushing.

"I know, but I thought it would work better as a bribe if I treated you," he told her conversationally. She adjusted herself as he put the wooden tray across her lap and tried to avoid eye contact. He wouldn't allow it. She was trying to put up that damned wall again, and he'd worked too hard to melt it. Gently, he reached out and tucked a strand of her impossibly thick hair behind her ear. He waited a moment, patient, and was rewarded when her eyes finally met his.

"Have you ever played hockey?" His question threw her off. She'd been expecting a knowing smile, a leering look, maybe even a stolen kiss. Instead, he'd asked her something that was so far in left field that she didn't even think about questioning him.

"My adoptive mother is Scandinavian and one of her nieces is married to a professional player. I think we can assume I have at least heard of it."

"Hearing about it and actually taking part are two different things. How about I teach you?" he asked, absently taking a strip of bacon from the plate. "Liam and I used to play our own version of hockey whenever we were iced in anyplace."

"Hockey? You want to teach me…hockey?" she questioned suspiciously.

"Well, not real hockey. It's the Jones rendition. The patio outside is completely iced over, and I know you have a pair of sneakers. But can I trust you with a broom…?" his voice faded as he pretended to consider the ramifications. "I would not care to be beaten senseless when you anger over a careless word from me."

She smiled. She couldn't seem to stop herself. Whatever she had expected this morning, this certainly hadn't been it. As he reached over to take a piece of toast to go with his bacon, she dug into the fluffy scrambled eggs, her green eyes now clear as she watched him. She was relaxed again, he saw as he settled onto her bed beside her legs. That small lick of uncertainty had been replaced by the glow of humor, and her body was slumping into her plump pillows. Whatever she'd been chastising herself about had been forgotten - at least for the moment. He hoped that he could make her forget about it all together.

***AAA***

Later that morning they sat in the living room, Killian on one couch with his laptop and Emma on the other with hers. He cast glances her way every now and then, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible while she wrote. She was on a tear, he thought, mesmerized as her fingers glided almost effortlessly over the keyboard. Her face was set, but her eyes were dreamy, as if she were watching some sort of internal movie that only she could see. He wondered exactly what machinations she was putting her characters through, and found himself fighting back questions about what was happening in her plot line.

She was an amazing woman, he thought, and tried to concentrate on his e-mail. Three of which had been from Liam and two from Elsa. She had been wonderful this morning, smacking around the coaster that had been their makeshift puck. She had been competitive, getting into the game with gusto as they'd slid around on the ice in their sneakers. Even with the extra layers of clothing and the coats, she'd still managed to bruise a few places on his body. And he'd enjoyed every minute of it. He was a perverse man, he decided, then stole another glance at Emma.

She was deep in concentration, her face now barely moving with emotions as she wrote. He wondered again what she was doing to the characters, and if someone else was meeting a brutal end. The nearly overwhelming urge to walk over and snuggle her between his legs while she wrote snuck up on him. He was on his feet before his mind kicked in. "I'll go make some lunch." She heard him go, though her mind was still wrapped in her story. The moment he was out of the room she felt just a bit colder, just a bit lonelier. Odd how his absence affected her that way. Mentally shrugging away the thought, she settled back in and continued to write.

***AAA***

Killian stood at the counter assembling BLT's while he listened to the classical station play their afternoon opera set. He wondered how he was supposed to interrupt Emma and coax her into eating. He had the feeling that, once she really got going, everything fell to the wayside, including food. He was pouring both of them something to drink when the first strains of a new song began. Out of habit, he said the name of the opera out loud. "Rigaletto."

"Carmen."

His head whipped around at the sound of her voice, his lips tipping into a welcoming smile. "I beg to differ, Emma. It's Rigaletto." She looked absolutely beautiful to him in her dark jeans that seemed to hug her without any flaws and the thick cowl neck sweater that she was wearing. Her hair was not in a braid, but clipped up on top of her head in a messy and artful way. She had ditched her sneakers earlier and her thick socks matched her sweater perfectly.

She lifted one arched eyebrow and cast him a full, cocky grin. "Care to place money on it?"

"You already own half my portfolio," he laughed, reminding her of the poker game she'd trounced him in.

As the music played itself out a bit more, his expression turned into one of bewilderment, then a self-mocking crooked smile. "Carmen it is. You win this round, Swan."

"Hey, I like this game. I can skunk you in 'Name That Opera' as well as I did in poker," she teased him, moving closer.

"You're an opera buff?" he asked, plopping a spoonful of slaw onto his plate.

"I've always loved opera, even when I was little girl. I don't know, I guess there's just something about it that's soothing," she replied. "I couldn't sing it. I am more of a karaoke, sing in the car kind of girl."

He noticed the small note of carelessness that had crept into her voice. A little too much carelessness, he thought, and decided to lighten the mood before he began probing. "Soothing? Opera isn't soothing - it's dramatic. All the love, death, sacrifice and deceit…I don't think even Stephen King finds opera soothing."

"I didn't mean the plots were soothing, I meant the music itself," she explained, taking out forks from the drawer. "It sort of inspired me to write."

"Now that is interesting. I have wondered what inspires you, love."

"It's not exactly a secret," she said with a shrug. "My son, my friends, my mom, a beautiful day…"

"They are very lucky souls indeed," he responded. "It's a mighty job to inspire an artist, which they seem to do well."

"I would think if they knew that I think of them that way that it would be a burden for them."

"Emma, you are hardly a burden for anyone. I would think," he said mimicking by her own phrasing, "most people find themselves privileged to be a part of your life and lucky for the chance."

"You do?" "I do," he told her, watching her with gentle eyes now. "If this is the path that you want, then I'm glad you're on it." "It is, and…thank you." He nodded briefly, then lifted his sandwich, watching as she took a bite of her own. Hoping to smooth things over, he said, "If you aren't busy after lunch, how about a movie?" She looked up, startled. "A movie…sure. I think I'm at a stopping point in my book right now. Let me just send what I've got to Mary Margaret." "Good. Save room for some popcorn."

Emma let out her held breath, smiling as the credits rolled across the screen. "You just can't beat Hitchcock."

"I decided I was in love with Grace Kelly after I saw her kiss Jimmy Stewart in this movie," Killian admitted, sitting further back on the couch. "I think I must have watched Rear Window at least two dozen times that summer."

"Ah, a boy and his obsessions," she teased, turning her attention to him. "You must have been devastated when you realized she'd married a real life prince."

"Crushed," he sighed, then laughed when she popped him with a pillow. "Hey!"

"I have no pity for you," she countered, grinning. "You probably have dozens of women tossing themselves at your feet. I figure the eyes alone would do it. You have beautiful eyes."

"No, love, not dozens…hundreds, thousands," he exaggerated, giving her a wicked wink. "There are so many that I have put little name tags on their shirts so I remember who they are."

She gave him a doubtful look, lifting an eyebrow in skepticism. "Hundreds, huh? Thousands? I can't imagine how you'd survive this long without one of them clawing your eyes out in frustration."

"Oh, but I have beautiful eyes, I believe a brilliant lass told me that," he teased, then pulled back slightly when he saw her look away. He'd struck a nerve, one that had her blushing. "But I'm sure you hear about how gorgeous you are all the time from your dozens of admirers."

"Not dozens…hundreds, thousands," she tossed back.

He found his gut clenching as she said it, knowing she was kidding, but still feeling the shaft of jealousy. The idea of any other man touching her, kissing her, enjoying her was enough to make him want to rip the man's throat out. It was an unexpected emotion, one that had crept up to smack him a little too hard, and much too close to home. He hated jealousy in other people; he'd never thought he'd end up being a victim of it himself.

"Killian, are you okay?" she asked, grabbing his attention.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he hurried to reply, letting his eyes dance away from her questioning stare.

They landed on her feet, which were propped neatly on the coffee table. He felt the familiar twisting in his gut and groin when he noticed them. Her toenails were still gleaming an unmarred red; sin red, he thought, and then called himself crazy when his heartbeat accelerated. She felt sweat begin to form on her skin as his eyes continued to stare at her feet. Why his gaze should do that to her, she had no idea. But she didn't want to analyze it; she just wanted to enjoy it. She shouldn't want to, but she did. Desperately.

"Emma, I…" She waited a heartbeat before prodding.

"What, Killian?" He speared her with his eyes. They were bright, fevered, glazed with need. She couldn't remember ever feeling so completely and totally wanted as she did at that moment. She didn't need to say yes. Her look spoke more eloquently than words.

He reached his arms out for her, gently taking her shoulders in his palms. Mesmerized, she moved as he pulled her toward his lap, placing her across his legs so that her head rested on the armrest beside his elbow. Slowly, much too slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers. She gave a little sigh as his lips began to manipulate her, pulling and brushing, demanding with a deliberate urgency that she respond.

She couldn't refuse him, couldn't refuse herself, and so she fell headfirst into the kiss. He felt her mouth ease under his, her lips cushioning the blows of his teeth as he nipped and explored. Then her tongue made a tentative swipe across his, sending bolts of desire through him like white hot lightening. He heard her groan, fed off the sound, and tangled his tongue with hers. The feel, the taste of her brought him to full attention. God, she was everything to him in this moment. She was life, she was breath, she meaning. It didn't matter how crazy the thought sounded, it was the truth. And it scared and astounded him at the same time. "Please, Emma, please," he rasped, his hands fisting in her hair.

"Let me touch you. Let me…"

"Yes," she whispered, arching closer to him. He growled low and feral, his fingers going immediately to the green flannel shirt she wore. With deft movements, he flicked the buttons open, his mouth still fused to hers as he worked. When his fingertips finally brushed her bare flesh, they both hissed with the pleasure of it. She thought she might die if he continued, but she knew she would die if he stopped. Her body had never responded like this, so completely, so quickly. Her breath caught as he loosened her clothing, taking his time to please her without regard to his own need or desire. She fell quickly, sure that she was dreaming.

"Gorgeous," she heard him say. "So gorgeous…"

There with the sound of the wind echoing outside and the crackling fire offering a warm counterbalance to its threat, the two allowed each other a little more inside the fortress of walls and traps they had set. She did not think of what ifs and maybes, nor did he. He returned to his earlier position over her, staring down with eyes that didn't seem predatory so much as caring.

She might have gotten lost in him, forgotten everything that she was and could be. But real life had a way of yanking a person back when they least expected or wanted it. In that moment it was the familiar chime of a chat request from her son coming through her phone. She dropped her head to his chest and with one hand tried to put herself to rights as she explained the need to take the call.

He felt her ease away from him, the walls recreated, though maybe a little less steely than before. She ran a hand through her hair and tried to put a simple smile on her even though she was simply speaking to him via phone and not on camera.

"Mom!"

"Hey kid," she said, the smile on her lips and light in her eyes genuine. "What's going on? I was going to call you tonight."

"I couldn't wait," he declared. "Grandma picked me up at school today and she said she got us tickets to go to New York in a couple of weeks for spring break. Me, you, her, and Walsh. Isn't that cool. She said we can go see a show and take a few tours. We can even see the Statue of Liberty."

"That's very generous of her," Emma answered, ignoring both Henry's mention of Walsh and the way that Killian immediately looked away. "I know you love it there so some time on vacation will be great."

"Grandma said she doesn't mind tagging along so that you and Walsh can have some private time without me hanging around. I know he is pretty cool about helping me with school stuff and all, but you guys…"

"We'll discuss that when I get back, okay?" Emma requested, not sure if she was even ready to broach that subject. "I want to hear more about you. What's been going on in your life?"

She didn't have to ask twice, as her son launched into a full description of his days and evenings. There was so much enthusiasm in his voice that she couldn't help but be excited for him too. Isn't that the way everyone should be, she wondered to herself. Shouldn't life make you excited for things rather than dreading them?

***AAA***

Emma woke a few hours later to the sound of a sleet shower. She hadn't known she'd fallen asleep. She couldn't remember the last time she'd indulged in an afternoon nap. But oh, it felt so good, she realized, stretching slightly as she snuggled against the warm body that still held her. Killian, her mind screamed suddenly, and her eyes popped wide open. She stared at his sleeping face, her thoughts racing as memories colored her face red. He had not insisted they go back to their activities from before the call, not even prying to find out why her mother thought that inviting her ex-boyfriend on vacation was a good idea. Instead, he had simply held her until they'd both fallen asleep.

An odd, warm emotion welled inside of her, its glow illuminating every dark corner. It felt good to be here; it felt…right. Licking her suddenly dry lips, she studied his relaxed features, taking a few unguarded moments to memorize him. He was so handsome, she thought, even when he was dreaming. Reaching out, she gently began to trace the contours and plains, her fingertips scraping over the stubble of his jaw, then traveling up his angled cheekbones, lingering on the slight scar that made him appear dangerous and even more handsome. He was dangerously appealing, she thought, and much too attractive for his - or her - own good. He had wanted her. She hadn't been stupid. But he hadn't taken advantage, hadn't pushed the issue, and she found that she was disappointed.

Swallowing the panic back, she carefully pulled away from Killian, rolling silently to her feet as she continued to watch him. He had crept in, she thought desperately. He had gotten under her defenses and lodged himself firmly under her skin in a very short amount of time. And she barely knew him. He knew so much about her, so much of her past that she'd given as glib remarks. He had even taken the time to ask about Henry, learning the boy's likes and dislikes before ever laying eyes on him. But what had she learned about him? That he worked in the ship building industry. That he liked s'mores, and that he had a brother. That he knew how to cook, enjoyed classical music and was an opera buff. That he was a giving lover. The list was pitifully inadequate.

"At least I make an effort…"

His words echoed hollowly in her mind, reminding her that he had been the one slowly uncovering who she was. But she had yet to really, truly uncover him. And why should she, part of her wondered. He would just walk away when the ice melted. He would go back to his home to Storybrooke, Maine and resume his life, business as usual, and she would head back to Boston with a completed book. Things would go back to the way they had been before. But she wouldn't be the same woman that had left Boston. She was different now, fundamentally changed, and she wasn't sure when it had happened. Somewhere between that disastrous first meeting and this afternoon, something inside of her had melted and she was sure it would never freeze over again. No, when she left here, she would be leaving a part of herself behind…and another piece would be going with Killian. It was a horrifying realization, but one that, strangely enough, didn't make her want to run from the room screaming. Yes, he would be taking some of her with him, and, if she put some effort into this, just as he had, she could walk away with a small part of Killian. Then she would have something to remember, something intangible that she could hold in her heart whenever she felt lonely.

***AAA***

She was checking their dinner when he came up behind her. He made enough noise so that he wouldn't scare her, but it wouldn't have mattered. He could have been stealthily quiet and she would have felt him coming closer.

"Hey, good lookin', whatcha' got cookin'?" he asked with a cheeky grin. His impression of an American accent was lacking, but he threw himself into nonetheless.

She turned, her face a mask of pain. "Oh, ouch! How long have you been waiting to spring that little gem on some unsuspecting woman?"

"Years," he chuckled, then pulled her into his arms. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting from him, but this was definitely more interesting than any fantasy she could have created. He held her close, his heartbeat thrumming in her ear as he nuzzled her hair.

"I missed you when I woke up," he confessed.

"Sorry, I got hungry, and I figured you would be starving. You always seem to be eating. It's a crime, you know, being able to eat like you do and still having that kind of body."

"Oooo…you like my body," he teased, pulling back to smile down at her.

"Now we're definitely getting somewhere, love."

She shook her head at him, then did something she hadn't planned. She stood on her tiptoes and placed a soft, easy kiss on his lips. He gave a slow hum in his throat as she did, then made a quick grab for her when she pulled away.

"Uh-uh, down boy," she said, laughing as she pointed to him. "Dinner is going to burn if you keep that up."

"Um, I could survive," he told her, his eyes lit with a sensual gleam.

"Ah, but what will the fire department think when they burst in to find us rolling around on the kitchen floor while the stove is going up in flames?"

"Oi, you win," he conceded, tossing his hands up in surrender. "Dinner comes first…this time."

She chuckled, then turned back to the oven to carefully pull a white oblong casserole dish from the rack. The tantalizing scent drifted to Killian, sending rumbles through his stomach as she pulled out another, smaller dish.

"Chicken and dumplings and a few sides," she told him before he could ask. "Your overeating is rubbing off on me. Though Mary Margaret would be proud"

"Your editor worries about your eating habits?" he replied, hurriedly taking down dishes to set the table. "She must be a good friend to pay attention to things like that."

"She knows I forget to eat when I'm really into my writing. When my body finally reminds me, I'm usually too famished and tired to do anything but eat a peanut butter scoop."

He'd thought as much. She was the kind of woman who could be very single minded about something, to the exclusion of everything else…especially if no one was there to remind her about the rest of her life. The need to protect her rose again, swamping him as he carefully placed the dinnerware on the table. When she was back in Boston, who would be there to tease her out of her book, to cook her meals, to take her out to play in the snow and the sun? Who could she rely on to make sure she had enough sleep, enough down time, when she was becoming far too engrossed in her story? She had her son, but he wondered if she had room for anyone else in that corner.

"Viola!" she grinned as she set the final casserole dish onto the trivet in the middle of the table. "Dinner is served."

They sat and chatted companionably, this time with Killian sitting next to her at the head of the table. They kept the conversation light, laughing about Elsa and Liam and how unlikely of a pair they were on paper, discussing their favorite soundtracks and comparing the orchestra created music to the studio created songs. Both agreed that Star Wars and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves were the top two contenders for best music. However, she learned not to get him started on Kevin Costner's lack of an accent in the latter.

Once the table was cleared, he sent her into the living room to stoke the fire while he made what he called 'heaven on earth' dessert. She couldn't imagine anything better than the homemade s'mores, but she was sure he would find something just as tempting. She was just settling into the couch as she stared into the fire when he sat down beside her. He handed her a large blue bowl with a wicked grin.

"This is going to make you want to roll your eyes and sing a chorus of Alleluia," he promised as she took the dessert.

"What is it?" she asked dubiously, stabbing at the massive lumps with a spoon. "Belgian chocolate gelato topped with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and almonds," he said before taking a large bite of his own concoction.

"Okay that is spooky because that's my favorite type of gelato," she told him with a growing smile. "But I'm not sure I can handle all the toppings."

"Sure you can. I have faith," he joked, prompting her to take a bite.

She did…and found that he was right. The taste danced a tango with her taste buds while her system went into a pleasant sugar shock. "Ummm…perfect," she announced, grinning when he chuckled. "Did you come up with this on your own?"

"No, actually, my stepmother did. I fell down the steps once, and I was so traumatized that she decided I needed a treat. She came up with this."

"Your stepmother? You've never mentioned her before." Emma asked, using the opening to learn just a bit more about him.

"No, I suppose I haven't. My mom died when I was quite young. She had cancer," he explained, and tried to act as if it were simply a matter of fact. But she could see the small frown lines appear, the way his eyes lowered for a moment and his body stilled slightly. "My father remarried shortly after, though he didn't really raise us. Liam and I pretty much just slept there at the house and once Liam could afford it, we moved out."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, meaning it. "It must have been hard for you, growing up not knowing her." "Well, I had my dad's wife to fill in that role on occasion," he said, "even if we did have our problems."

"You fought with her?"

"Yeah, we had a really rough patch when I was 17. I came back from school with a huge chip on my shoulder, angry at my father and at her, mad at the world. She lost patience with me, I had no patience with her, and it all kind of exploded," he shrugged, his eyes glazing over as he remembered. "I suppose I wasn't at my most charming."

"Oh, Killian!" she gasped, her gelato forgotten for the moment. "I'm sorry that you went through that."

"I ran away from there and got into all matters of trouble. Ended up hurting myself during a drunken night out and almost lost my hand in the process. My stepmother, being a nurse, thought she could help."

"And you and her…how did you work through that?"

"Well, it wasn't easy," he told her, absently scooping whipped cream. "But she apologized, profusely, and she started helping me with my recovery. She brought me some of my mother's things: photographs, old home movies, that sort of thing. We started talking about her, about how she had been a loving mom, and how my stepmother had only wanted to live up to that. It took a while, but we built a bridge between us."

Emma sat in silence for a moment, thinking about what it must have been like for him, to be young while struggling with emotional and physical pain. He was a strong person, she thought, much stronger than she could have imagined. And he was stubborn, she decided, if he had managed to get the use of his hand back after only a few months. Forgiving, too, if he had been able to work things out with his stepmother.

"So maybe you are capable of love," she said in a bit of wonder. "You must have fallen in love before."

"Aye. It was a beautiful and terrible thing to do." While he never mentioned her name, he spoke of her with a gentleness and regret that made her feel as though she might cry for the woman too. Though her death was tragic and heartbreaking, Emma realized that he was speaking of abandonment and neglect that she was all too familiar with feeling.

"I don't know what to say," she whispered, tilting her head in that sympathetic way that people do.

"No, don't start feeling sorry for me," he reprimanded with a grin. "I was hell on wheels back then. If you ask people right now, they'll still say I am. Now, enough with the sad stuff. Ask me something I'll enjoy answering."

Emma cleared her throat before she asked, "What exactly do you do at your job?"

"I work on the production side of things. I enjoy working with my hands beyond just the designs. So I take their ideas and put them on paper. Then as best I can, I try to make it a reality. From the actual building to customizing. We have a brilliant crew that makes it look easy."

"So, you manage them?" she continued hesitantly.

"Among other things. I always try to be at the warehouse whenever an order is being built, that way I can get a feel for who the client really is. It's quite cathartic to take some vague description and build something that not only floats but is something that they have desired and dreamed about. Owning a boat is a special experience. I like to make sure it is what they want."

"Wow, a man of many talents," she tried to joke.

A sore spot, he thought with an inner grimace. Time to change subjects.

"Who are your favorite authors?" he questioned, pleased when she took another bite of ice cream. "I figure a writer will know all the best literature."

She cocked her eyebrow at him, giving him a self-deprecating smile. "You want to know who the best writers of romance novels are?"

"Exactly!" he said, hunkering further into the large loveseat. "Spill it."

Emma wasn't sure how long they sat and talked. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours. When they'd polished off their dessert, Killian had dropped the bowls on the floor and summarily pulled her into his arms. She didn't resist, hadn't wanted to, and so they sat cuddled comfortably, her head on his chest as they chatted.

"I'm going to kiss you," he said out of nowhere. "Probably not news to you, but I seem to always want to when you're close to me like this."

She jerked in reaction, but didn't move. Where in the world had that come from? Not that she didn't want it…she did, in a desperate way. But he hadn't shown even a single sign that he'd been thinking of any kind of physical exchange. She had been lazing against him, her scent titillating him, her lush body driving him to teeth gnashing excitement. And she'd had no idea. She'd just sat and talked, laughed and teased while he'd been tormented. He had to keep the magnitude of his desire to himself, though. He didn't want to push her past what she was willing to give. But he hadn't been able to stop himself from telling her exactly what he was going to do just a few scant seconds before his brain registered his intent.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice husky as she tilted her head towards him. He groaned in anticipation, lowering his head slowly as she strained up to meet him. He felt the familiar slam of need as their mouths met, the painful desire that danced around his libido like gleeful little devils. She tasted like everything he'd ever dreamed of, like everything he could ever want. His hand reached up to cup her face, his fingers cradling her cheek as he nipped and laved.

Then her lips parted under his, her tongue moving out to meet his with a bold swipe. She felt him tremble under her fingertips, his heartbeat crashing into her palm as she eased closer. She could do this to him, she thought, then shivered with the power of it. She could make his control slip, his body react and his desire sweep away that steady stream of thought he always seemed to have. It was a heady feeling. She wanted more. She wanted it all. He quivered when her fingers stroked down his chest, playing tiny little patterns over his shirt. She couldn't know what she was doing to him, torturing him so exquisitely. But, God, he was enjoying it. He had no idea he was such a perverse man.

When her hand slipped over his bare abdomen, he realized with a shock that she had unbuttoned his shirt. When had she done it, he wondered, then couldn't bring himself to care. She was touching him, inflaming his skin with every brush and stroke. It was impossibly erotic, mind numbingly intense, and he hoped she would never stop. She deepened the kiss, pushing into him as she touched him. His skin was so hot, the feel of it slick and hard against the tips of her fingers. She could tell that his breathing was becoming as erratic as hers and reveled in it. She wanted him to burn just as brightly as she had for him. He was acutely aware of her every move, so focused on her touch that he didn't think to question what she was doing. Her hand slid down his torso slowly, eliciting several moans of approval as she worked her way down. She teased him with the thought of unzipping his jeans, her nails skimming over the now too tight denim.

"Oh, oh, Emma, I don't…oh, God," he groaned.

She smiled, her upturned lips full of power. He was entirely in her control now, a situation that she was going to enjoy.

"Emma, you don't…you don't have to," he told her, his breathing heavy.

"I know, but I want to," she said, her voice so full of promise that he sat back with a low groan.

She continued her caresses. He thought he'd die. He would just close his eyes and expire from the sheer desire she was creating inside of him. Her hands were torturing him, driving him crazy with their nimble fingers and easy movements. How much was a man supposed to take before he simply couldn't breathe anymore? If he died, then he'd meet his maker a damn happy man. She scraped her teeth along his jaw line, giving him tiny love bites as she made her way down his throat. He jerked and bucked under her touch, her name rasping from his mouth like a quiet prayer.

He felt his need clawing its way up his body, pushing just under his skin. It simmered and pooled, boiling his blood as it grew tighter, heavier, and needier. She moved with him, keeping his pace, her teeth and tongue tasting the skin of his collarbone. She held him, kissing him with all the fervor that was inside of her. He stared down at her with molten eyes, swallowing the words that nearly came tumbling out. She wouldn't accept that he wanted her, not just because of what she was physically doing to him, but because of what was happening inside of him. He wanted to make love to her, to feel her underneath him, on top of him, in front of him, beside him…he cut the erotic images off as quickly as he'd created them. He wasn't sure how she would react if he simply pulled her down on the couch and began to ravish her. She would allow it, he was sure of that, but she wouldn't understand it.

"Oh, God, Emma, this is…oh…" His features twisted as he considered her. She grinned, a Cheshire cat smile, and cocked her eyebrow. "Look at you," she chuckled throatily. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

"Enjoy isn't the word," he breathed, drawing her back to his chest. "I don't think they've made a word for what I felt…for what I feel"

"Killian Jones, speechless, that's a new one."

"I assure you that only you seem to do that to me," he said, lifting her hand in his to touch his lips to her knuckles. "Perhaps we should move this some place more comfortable?"

She eyed him carefully and wanted to protest, but she figured he wanted a moment of privacy to adjust himself. She didn't want to go to bed. What she wanted to do was curl up on the couch with him, enjoy the heat of the fire and of each other, and drift asleep in each other's arms. But that was a dangerous thought. Having sex with a man and sleeping with a man, in her mind, were two very different things. True, both held the need for truth and intimacy, but to her, being bound around another human being while you were at your most vulnerable was far more intimidating than enjoying their touch and skill.

"Okay, but don't blame me if I'm already asleep by the time you get around to tucking me," she said with a soft smile. Leaning up, she gazed at him for moment, then placed a tender kiss on his well-used mouth. "I'll see you in a minute."

He watched her go, part of him longing to chase after her, lift her in his arms and carry her to his bed. The other part, the part that was still raw from their earlier conversation about his teen years, was afraid to touch her. What if she ran away? What if she rebuffed him? No, she wouldn't turn him away from taking her body, but a slow realization had begun to dawn on him. He didn't just want the use of her for a day or two. He wanted her, all of her, all of Emma Swan that existed. He wanted her in his life, wanted to wake up to her, go to sleep with her, and enjoy every damn part of the day in between with her. It slammed him like a fist to the solar plexus. In a few short days, locked in this cabin, the amazing woman that had just given him exquisite physical pleasure had worked her way into his heart. What the hell was he supposed to do with that life altering insight?

 ** _These two idiots are trying so hard to figure out what is going on with them that they can hardly see straight. Do you think they'll ever figure it out?_**


	6. Chapter 6 Everything

Emma woke the next morning to a strange feeling; her face was rosily warm, her eyelids assaulted with a glow that forced them open. The sun, she realized, and smiled lazily as she stretched. Then, as the implication sank in, she felt her happiness fade into gray. If the sun was out, that meant that the ice would melt…which meant that her time in the little cabin in the mountains was almost up. Strange, she had been so reluctant to come here, and now she was even more reluctant to leave. It was because of Killian, of course. He had made all the difference in the world.

She rolled to her side and pulled the phone from her bedside table, scrolling through the messages from Walsh – she hadn't yet responded to any of those. Her mother's were nearly as frequent, but she managed to type out a quick return to her, thanking her for agreeing to take on Henry and saying she would see her soon. There was Mary Margaret's messages next. Her friend loved the book and demanded that she call as soon as possible.

"Is this a bad time?" Emma asked, her voice sounding a bit rough after sleep. "I could…"

"You know I'm awake with the birds," the woman responded. "I just didn't know if you'd have time to talk. You don't admit things like this, but I've got to know what is going on with you. What's got you inspired enough to write a love story that defies everything I know you feel about relationships and love? It sure as hell isn't Walsh."

Emma stared out the window again, wishing she was still seeing the snow blowing against the glass or hearing the sleet on the roof. "Mary Margaret this is kind of private."

The woman on the other end clicked her tongue against the top of her mouth, sounding both frustrated and sympathetic. "Emma, are you okay? Because whatever is going on, it's got to be pretty great. Whatever this thing is that you're doing there in the mountains? Don't stop, okay?"

Sighing and pulling the handmade quilt up over her body to her neck, Emma pictured her friend as a cheerleader. "You know," she added teasingly. "This mystery guy you're picturing could be a real jerk. He could be married or a serial killer. And you're over there cheering me on."

"I'm your friend and editor, not your priest."

"I'm not good at this stuff," Emma blurted out. "I can't even keep my relationship with Walsh from going sideways. Walsh cares about me and wants to make it work. And I push him away with both hands. Who's to say I won't do the same thing if I was somehow able to start something with Killian?"

If Mary Margaret had been a different kind of friend, she might have celebrated and ignored Emma's feelings for a moment at learning there was someone new who was in Emma's life. She didn't. "Emma, you can't go around life looking for what's going to go wrong. You obviously like this guy. Only time will tell what's going to happen. Maybe it's just a vacation fling. Maybe it's more. Nothing that you do or say is going to change the core of it."

"Because it's all up to fate?" Emma asked dejectedly. "We are all just wandering around and everything is predetermined?"

"That would be kind of boring. Why would we have to make any decisions at all? I'm not a full believer in this whole fate and destiny thing, Emma, but I do believe in hope. And I think that underneath all the cynicism, doubt, and fear, you do too." Mary Margaret sighed. "Now get yourself pulled together and go see this Killian guy. I for one want to know how this is all going to work out."

Emma finished the phone call, promising to make a few of the edits that were being requested. She still didn't get up though, pulling her computer over into her bed with her and typing a few more pages before felt her stomach rumble.

The slow, steady sound of a melting ice cycle caught her attention. The sound reminded her depressingly of constant drops of tears, much like the ones that threatened to fall from her eyes. She'd never hated the sun so much as she did this morning. Heavy with grief, she crawled from her bed and ambled toward the shower, her thoughts whirling in her mind. She wanted to stay here with Killian. She wanted the world to sink into another ice age so she could be stranded here with him. She wanted to be with him indefinitely…forever.

The moment to word formed in her head she stopped cold, her feet frozen on the cozy area rug. Forever…where had it come from? She hadn't even known this man for an entire week, and here she was creating a future with him. It was crazy. It was insane. It was…she sighed. Well, it was the truth, she admitted silently, hanging her head. Somehow she'd managed to let her heart become involved. It was all his fault, she reasoned; he was the one who had been so kind to her. He had yelled at her, matching her verbal blow for verbal blow. But he had also fed her s'mores and taught her how to play a very bad imitation of hockey. He shared the same love of music and movies, the same strange sense of humor, and he hadn't looked at her as if she had two heads when he'd found out what she did for a living. How could she have possibly thought to keep herself emotionally safe from a man like that?

The voice in her head chastised her for daring to think like that when she had a life and a son in Boston and he lived in Maine. This wasn't summer camp where the promises of writing and whatnot would keep the fires burning until the next year. She didn't need a pen pal. Henry had once told her that he knew she was serious about Walsh because she had introduced the two of them, usually keeping her dates away from her son.

"You'd like him," she said thinking of telling her son about Killian. "You really would."

Groaning at herself, she willed her feet to move, carrying her into the spacious bath. She didn't want to think about these things, she decided; it was simply too much to take in for the moment. She would get a shower, get dressed, and go downstairs…and hide herself in Killian's arms. The future, she thought, would have to wait for a few precious hours.

Killian stared out the windows in the living room, cursing Mother Nature for her moment of bright happiness. The sun was out. The clouds were receding. The ice was melting. He wanted to throttle the weather for being so obnoxious.

Ramming a hand through his already messy hair, he turned from the picturesque scene and headed to the kitchen, determined to ignore the fact that the storms had apparently moved on. He didn't have much time left with Emma, he thought. By tomorrow the roads would probably be clear enough to drive on. He couldn't help but imagine her gleefully tossing her bags in the back of her car, waving cheerfully and driving away with his heart. And, damn it, she did have his heart.

It was absolutely ridiculous, he thought as he pulled out the makings for omelettes. He, Killian Jones, renowned for his love 'em and leave 'em style and his bachelor attitude, had fallen for a woman in a handful of days. She had bewitched him, beguiled him, and in general had embedded herself in his psyche. She wasn't going anywhere, ever, he thought, simultaneously wincing and smiling.

Emma Swan was the woman he wanted to wake up to, to play with, to grow old with. He certainly wouldn't lack for excitement and stimulation with her in his life; in fact, she'd probably keep him on his toes until he was well and truly six feet under. And it was a marvelous prospect.

He just wasn't sure how the lady in question felt.

If he were a braver man, he would ask her. If he were truly heroic, he'd take her in his arms, ravish her thoroughly, and gently demand that she confess her feelings. But at the moment, he was neither of those. He'd never been rejected by a woman, not since Milah had returned to her husband, and he knew that Emma's dismissal of him would hurt. If she looked at him, told him that she had no interest in pursuing a relationship with him, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to survive it. His feelings were so strong, even if they were new, that he was afraid he would splinter right down the middle and there wouldn't be a way to bring himself back together.

She would have excuses, he reasoned to himself. There was the distance between them. He'd move to bloody Antarctica if that's what it took. There was her son. He had no issue with that either. The boy was a part of her and he would welcome the opportunity to be a part of their lives. He didn't know what she would expect of him, but he'd gladly coach a team, help with homework or drive carpool if it meant coming home to her every night and waking up to her each morning.

Ice cracked across the kitchen window as it heated, the sound ricocheting around in his head. He didn't have time to be timid, though. Even if he didn't have the words, he knew he had to have the actions to show her how good they were together. He had to make her see that the two of them as a couple made more sense than the two of them as separate people. That the physical pleasure for him wasn't just about desire and fulfilment, not when it came to her. She needed to understand that she was more than just a convenient bed partner. And he would have to do it carefully, thoughtfully and with as much skill as he had.

***AAA***

Emma lay snuggled against Killian's chest, her back resting against his chest as they stared into the roaring fire and chatted softly. It had been a long day, one that she had tucked away into her heart to keep forever. On the nights when it got too lonely and too cold, she would pull the memory out and let it warm her in the way only thoughts of Killian could.

He had given her an extraordinary time, she thought, burrowing further into him. They'd had a huge breakfast to start, then a game of Monopoly, which he'd graciously lost, followed by a shoot 'em up video game…this time with her as the loser. They'd had a light lunch, but a lavish dinner, which both had worked together to prepare. The roasted chicken, twice baked potatoes, roasted vegetables and red wine had lulled them both a bit, filling their stomachs to the point of despair. Then he'd done something she considered remarkable: he'd taken out a guitar that he said he just happened to travel with and they'd had an old fashioned sing along. They'd sung in front of the fire for an hour or more, simply enjoying each other's voices and the music they were making. When he'd finally pled tired fingers, they had cuddled together, and now here they sat, the tableau of a loving couple on a chilly night. It made her heart ache with unspoken needs.

Killian dropped a kiss on her head, gently squeezing Emma just a bit tighter against him. God, she was wonderful. He had watched her today, memorizing each expression, each smile, each look from her eyes. He wanted to remember it all; he wanted to be able to recall this time with her when he was too old to remember much anything else.

While he knew that she was not going to completely disappear from his life, being Elsa's adopted cousin and all, he wanted more than the occasional sighting. He wanted more moments where he could show her just how wonderful he found her. He wanted to hear his brother tell him that he'd done well to earn her love and win her heart. The images of a future with her were coming fast and furious to him.  
But first he had to convince her that this little interlude wasn't just an interlude…it was something more. And then he would have to wait to see if she were willing to take the same giant leap of faith that he was.

"Emma, I've had a really good time with you," he said softly, tenderly playing with the fingers of her hand.

"Oh, so, you like being beaten in practically every game we've played," she teased, her throat thick as she waited for him to tell her that it was over. "I never realized you were such a masochist."

"Hey, what can I say? That kind of thing just does it for me," he joked back, leaning his cheek against hers. "Seriously, I've enjoyed myself up here more than I've had in a long time."

"I'm glad," she replied, then added hesitantly, "So have I."

He smiled at that, feeling his heart picking up its pace. "I don't think Liam and Elsa had quite this in mind when they suggested I spend some time here."

"And I doubt that Mary Margaret was planning on me being snowed in with someone like you," she said, relaxing into him. "But I'm glad it's worked out this way."

He let out a deep breath, revelling in her last statement. He knew there was something more there if she was happy to be here with him. "Sometimes the best things that happen in your life are unexpected."

"Like almost falling in that river?" she asked, her eyebrows raised as she grinned.

"Depends on who falls with you," he chuckled, remembering their many tumbles outside when they'd played the makeshift hockey game outside.

"Um, well, I suppose since George Clooney wasn't around, you did pretty nicely," she said, obligingly yelping when he poked her in the ribs.

"So, you dream about George Clooney, do you? Is he your fantasy man, love?"

"What's not to fantasize about?" she asked, pushing him with her words. "He has that hair, gorgeous eyes, a killer smile…"

"And he's married," Killian put in, trying not to sound insulted. "I'll bet all your hot dreams since you've been up here have been about me. Come on, admit it."

"I'll do no such thing!"

"Oh, you think you can hold out on me?" he joked, his hands going immediately to her ribs. "Forget it, I'm not going to let you out of it that easy."

He began to tickle her, his fingers digging gently into her skin as she squealed and squirmed.

"Oh, Killian, stop it!" she laughed, trying to get away from him. "No! Ohhh…stop it!"

"Not until you admit that you fantasize about me," he told her sternly, continuing his assault. "Tell the truth, Emma!"

"That's – oh, that's not –," she broke off into a laugh as she bent into her side. "No fair!"

"Ah, but all's fair in love and war," he said, enjoying the feel of her wiggling body against his.

She turned then, falling onto the carpet in front of the fire, his hands still on her stomach. It only took a moment for the reality of their position to set in. He was on top of her, crouched between her legs, her thighs rubbing his flanks as she stared up at him, barely breathing. All laughter stopped as their hearts jerked and their blood poured through their veins like quicksilver.

He cupped her face in one of his large hands, softening when she nuzzled her silky cheek against his palm. He wanted to tell her the whole truth; that he was terrified of the very real feeling of love that she'd evoked. Sweet, hot tempered, stubborn, lust inducing Emma. He'd wanted her since he'd had that first glimpse of her.

She felt her body begin to tingle as her heart expanded to the point of pain. How she wanted this man. The way he made her feel was so powerful that she didn't think she had the words for it. But she could show him. Even if it were only for this one night, she could give to him what he'd already given to her.

"I…I want you, Killian," she whispered, her voice raw. "I want…I want you to make love with me."

He thought his heart had stopped. Just to make sure he hadn't put the words he wanted to hear into her mouth, he stroked his fingertips over her jaw. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. I want you…I want this," she replied softly.

He saw the truth in her face and nearly came undone. Growling deep in his throat, he lowered his mouth to hers, claiming her lips as he marked the moist recesses with his searching tongue. She responded just as readily as she had that first time, meeting his growing demand with passion of her own. They both needed this, both needed the soul deep fulfilment that they instinctively knew their joining would bring.

With a firm, nearly violent tug he rolled them over, cradling her body on top of his as they settled on the oriental style rug. His swollen member pressed insistently against the crook of her thighs, his length throbbing as it met her already scorching heat. With her mouth still clinging to his, Emma began to move against him. He heard her groan in dark delight and joined his movements to hers, determined to feel her self-control slip. Shoving his fingers into her hair, he gripped the long, thick tresses gently then gave a sudden jerk, pulling her head back to give him better access to the long column of her throat. Breaking free of her lips, he nipped his way across her jaw and down to the sensitive skin of her collarbone, licking and biting the fragrant flesh as he went.

Air rushed through her clamped teeth as tiny devils of heat danced up her spine and spread out to her already inflamed core. She wanted this, she thought, she wanted this always. His hands on her, his mouth working magic, his body her personal playground. She'd never thought that need could be so fulfilling, not until Killian. But he'd shown her in so many ways that she wasn't what the other men had called her.

He could hardly believe the sensations coursing through his body, setting him on fire. She was so responsive, so giving, that he thought she might kill him with desire with very little effort. And still he wanted more of her, had to have her naked against his as they drove each other up to their climaxes. With one rapid, sound move, he flipped their entwined bodies over, securing her beneath him. With his teeth scraping her neck and shoulders, he began pulling at her black shirt, his need building to near ferocity as he jerked the pliant material. The sound of the soft cotton tearing an aphrodisiac, sending wild shivers down her limbs as he growled in a husky, feral voice. With a gratified grunt, they shoved and pressed hands to newly revealed flesh, palming her fiery skin as they skimmed and explored each other his way up her ribs to her full breasts.

She bowed into him as the sensations he created sliced through her and any doubts that still lingered. God, he knew exactly where to touch, how to touch, and what way to touch to raise the red haze of passion. When his hands on her weren't enough, she pulled at his shirt as well, her fingers unsteady as white-hot bolts of desire ricocheted through her blood and straight to the center of her need. Frustration had her tearing at the blue t-shirt, desperate to stroke her fingertips over his heated skin. The material was too stubborn to give under her struggles and she was grateful when Killian reached out to jerk the offending barrier off of his body for her.

"God, you are beautiful," he whispered huskily as the last of their clothing was swept away.

Her answer was a hiss. "Oh, oh, Killian, you…oh," she moaned, her head falling forward to curtain both their faces in the thick drape of her rich golden hair.

"Emma, Emma, look at me," he rasped, his eyes piercing hers as she stared, dazed, into his gaze. "Me, Emma…this is me and you. Me and you…"

***AAA***

The fire had all but died out, no longer sending licks of flames skyward as felt her eyes beginning to close and the warmth of him against her lulling her to sleep. While she had feared that regret would shatter her, she felt none of it.

"Thank you, Emma," he whispered, nuzzling into her hair.

"For what?"

"For sharing that with me," he said softly, his heart filling with unnamed, unchecked emotions. "I know…I'm probably the last person you would want to be with after how abysmally I behaved when we first met, but now with you here…thank you."

She didn't know how to respond to his gratitude. His words had left her as weak and watery boned as his lovemaking had. Instead of responding, she snuggled closer to him, trailing light, feather kisses across his skin.

She could have cried with the joy of it all, with the feel of his hands, the sensation of his body against hers. He had given her more than he knew. She would gladly let him use her body for as long as he wanted…and she would use him back. With the thought of a long, passionate night lodged in her mind, she rose from the floor and stared down at him, a blonde haired goddess full of the feeling of newly aroused desire.

"How about a shower first," she suggested. "You can wash my back."

That did it, he thought, smiling wickedly as he became completely and undeniably full again. Rising quickly, he swung her into his arms, grinning as she let out a quick, rich laugh. As fast as he could, he carried her back to his room.

After their shower that had depleted the hot water supply, they lay together in his large bed, the dark blue pulled over their naked bodies. Emma rested her head in his chest, listening contentedly to the strong, steady beat of his heart. It was reassuring, and something soothing, to have the sound banging gently in her ear. She couldn't believe what she had done, making love with a man she'd known only a handful of days; but for reasons she couldn't quite explain he had placed himself firmly in her heart. And he wasn't going to be dislodged, ever, she thought as she traced lazy circles on his skin. But those sad thoughts would be there for her later. Right now, this very moment, was all that counted.

Killian held her against him, inhaling her rich scent as he played absently with her still damp hair. She'd certainly been a tigress in the shower, he thought with a broad grin. He had scratches on his back that just might leave a few sweet scars. Closing his eyes, he thought of how good this felt, how right it was to have her here, in his bed, wrapped in his arms. Emma was an amazing woman, one that was full of surprises and suppressed spirit, and he found himself still longing to know just a bit more about her.

"Tell me about your childhood," he requested softly, tightening his hold on her as she flinched. He knew she might be reluctant to depart any more information about her lonely childhood, and he was prepared for her momentary uncertainty. "You haven't told me very much about what it was like being raised in foster homes."

Emma licked her suddenly dry lips, not sure how to begin a conversation about a subject she normally avoided. But Killian wasn't a man to be put off, and, if she were honest, she felt more protection against her memories in this moment than she ever had before.

"Well, there's not much to tell," she began with a negligent shrug. "I was adopted when I was a baby, but my adoptive parents sent me back when she became pregnant and they didn't think they could raise both of us. There wasn't any other family, so I was put into the system. I moved around a lot, going from one house to another, different kids, same dislike, before I landed at Ingrid's. I was a bit of a nerd," she admitted with small smile. "I used to listen to music, study like crazy and wear glasses and dark clothes."

"I'll bet you were gorgeous," he said softly.

She snorted in disbelief as she shook her head. "No, not really, but that didn't matter to me. I didn't want to get involved with anyone or anything; then I met Neal. We were going to run away together and start a life where none of the rejection and pain mattered. But it didn't work out that way. He'd stolen some watches and in our haste to pawn them to get money to go to Florida we made some mistakes. I ended up getting caught with them and he kept running."

"And Henry?" he prodded gently.

"Was born about a month before my release. I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I was a new mom, newly released from jail, a brand new equivalency diploma, and had maybe $20 and a beat up car. The day I was released I remember walking outside and there stood Ingrid. She never acted like any of it was a big deal. She just packed us up and drove us to her house."

"She clearly loves you very much," he concluded, giving her a small squeeze. "Then you started writing."

"Yes, I did," she agreed, snuggling closer. "Actually, I graduated from high school, and living at Ingrid's. I started working at a coffee shop in Boston, saving my money for when she got frustrated and kicked me out with my son, which she never did. I also started writing in my journal, which led to writing for the characters that seemed to start living in my head. And then one day this perky brunette bounced her way into the shop."

"Ah, enter this Mary Margaret lass," he concluded.

"Yep. she was a regular; she would come in twice a day, once on her way to work, then on her way home. Pretty soon she started chatting to me, and before I knew it…well, she'd appointed herself my friend. She was in love with this guy whose parents wanted him to marry someone else. Her defensive strategy was to start a life without him so she found an apartment and wanted me and Henry to live with her downtown. I couldn't tell her no - she wouldn't let me," Emma chuckled. "So, we moved in with her, and she found my short stories one day. She was just a junior editor then, but she took them in to her supervisor, who decided they were wonderful, and, viola, an author was born."

"You're first book was a conglomeration?" he asked, nuzzling her hair.

"Yes, it was. They decided to merge all those small stories and make one anthology. It sold fairly well, so they accepted my second book, which I'd been working while editing my book, and that was released about six months after my first."

"Like a snowball," he smiled.

"Exactly," she agreed, then turned her face up to his. "Now, tell me about you. How did you get from England to Maine?"

"Well, once I turned ten, I actually spent more time any place other than with family," he told her easily.

But she could hear the catch in his voice. How lonely it must have been to be a little boy at a school so far away from home. She found herself gently stroking his bare chest, as if she could comfort the child he had been with that one gesture. She remembered his telling her about how hurt he'd been as a teenager, believing his stepmother had kicked him out of his family.

"But when we landed here, I did manage to find plenty of…interesting things to do," he admitted with a wicked grin.

"Um, why am I suddenly picturing you doing bad boy things just to make the girls swoon," she muttered.

"Because you know me better than you think you do," he replied, pulling her closer to him. "Actually, I tended to try to be alone. There really weren't that many interesting people that were close to my age, so most of the time I was just a loner."

"Oh, how very James Dean," she teased, then yelped when he playfully pinched her bare bottom.

"I did find some nice spots, like the pier," he continued. "I used to go down there and watch the boats dock and leave; I'd wonder where they were going and what would happen if I hopped on board one and floated away. Sometimes when it was too busy there, I'd go to the park. I found this small gazebo almost completely surrounded by woods. A lot of people don't know about the place, except for the couples that were married there. It's nice, quiet and peaceful. Most of the time when I ran away, I'd end up at the gazebo. Liam always knew he could find me there."

Emma closed her eyes for a moment, imagining Killian as a hard-edged teen, desperately trying not to show how much he hurt, spending the night in the park. She could empathize with his need to be alone with his anger; there had been innumerable times when she had wished she could simply disappear for a few hours or an entire day.

"I'll have to take you to Storybrooke one day," he was saying, breaking into her thoughts. "I'll take you to Granny's and we'll have a pancake brunch. They make the best damn pancakes. She and her granddaughter are the ones who run this place too."

She laughed when his voice faded into a sigh, as if he were experiencing a particularly blissful memory. "Does anything else have that same effect on you?" she teased.

He turned bright, knowledge filled eyes to her and lifted on eyebrow. "Only you."

She felt his attention like a fist to the stomach, her heart tightening as he gazed at her. Trying to lighten the mood, she gave him a little shove. "I don't know if I like being compared to a stack of pancakes."

"It's a high honor," he joked, slowly rolling over on top of her. "They're sweet," he said, nibbling her lips, "and rich," he nipped her neck, "and they're perfect with whipped cream," he licked a path across her.

She let out a small moan, writhing underneath him as he enjoyed her body. Absently, she twined her hands into his hair, holding her head close to him as his mouth descended. She hissed and arched, her legs lifting without thought. She heard him growl in pleasure and the sound sent a wild thrill through her. Her body became inflamed, needful, as his hands began to work magic.

"Emma, oh, God," he breathed, lifting his mouth to hers. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

"I think I do," she rasped, wiggling her hips.

He inhaled deeply, harshly, and slammed his mouth down on her delicate lips. She responded readily, devouring even as she was being devoured, mating with his tongue as she continued to taunt him with her movements. She wanted this man, wanted this night just for herself. It was a selfish act, taking from him to build memories, but she knew that when she left her thoughts of this night would be what brought her through the lonely days and lonelier nights.

"Oh, God, Emma," he breathed, collapsing on top of her afterwards. "I think you're going to kill me."

"But what a way to go," she joked, nipping his sweat slicked shoulder.

He chuckled, enjoying the feel of her against him, the taste of her still on his lips as their hearts beat in erratic, but somehow harmonic, cadences. Gently, he rolled onto his side, keeping his arms around her as he secured her against him.

Emma lay quietly as the night drifted on, her mind and heart swirling with warring emotions. She loved Killian, she admitted that now at least to herself. He had gotten under her skin. It would be so nice to lay in his arms for a few more days, to make believe that it could be forever, but it would still end the same. He would go back to Storybrooke and all those lovely, talented women who couldn't stop pursuing him. She would go back to Boston and bury herself in a new book and the editing of her newest work.

It would be best, she decided, if she made a quick, clean break. No tears, no recriminations. And as a soft, steady rain began to fall outside she knew that Mother Nature was agreeing with her. With one last, lingering kiss on his lips, Emma quietly slid out of his warm embrace and made her way to her own bedroom, calling herself a liar as she went. She definitely had tears, she thought as she dashed them away.

***AAA***

Killian woke the next morning, a sly smile on his lips as he stretched in warm comfort. Sighing, he rolled over…and his hand smacked against an empty bed. He was immediately awake, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of her. But she wasn't in the bathroom, he saw as he stared through the open door, and she wasn't rummaging through his closet for another plaid shirt.

"Bloody hell!" he cursed, jerking himself out of bed.

Quickly, he ran to her room, flinging the door open. But she wasn't there, either, and neither were her clothes, he saw as he stared at the now empty closet. She had run. Damn it, she had let her insecurities work their damage and she'd fled. He knew she was only protecting herself, keeping her heart safe from even more rejection. But, hell, couldn't she have waited until he was awake, so they could have talked this out?

No, not Emma, he thought, stalking into the living area, paying no attention to his naked state. She would be too afraid of showing her hand and being turned away. She would think she was saving herself from pain, and him from embarrassment. He had known this could happen, he'd only hoped that it wouldn't. Regardless, he wasn't going to let her walk out, not when he was so sure that what they'd found these last few days was a rare, precious thing. He had to think, he had to form a strategy. Emma would be skittish, and he had to approach her with careful, measured steps, just as he'd done these past days. Finally, his mind cobbled together the skeleton of a plan, one that had to work.

Letting out a long, annoyed breath, he picked up the cell phone by his bed and pressed out his sister-in-law's number. The moment her voice came on the line, he sank to the quilts, sheets, and pillows and launched the first step of his plan of attack.

"Elsa, I need your help."

 _ **The dreaded cliffhanger. I'll go hide now.**_


	7. Chapter 7 The End

_**Here we are at the last chapter of this little ficlet. It has been more than fun to write, as it gave me a chance to give a new side to the brokenness that are these two great characters. I hope that you have enjoyed this just as much as I have. Thank you to those who have commented, reviewed, favorited, etc. I'd love to hear from you again after you read this and let me know what you liked, your favorite part, or how you liked my ending.**_

Emma burrowed her hands into the red leather jacket that she found so comfortable and watched as her mother took another picture of Henry with the Statue of Liberty in the background. Even with no Walsh, the trip had not been cancelled and her mother was trying her best to be an activities director for the group. They had seen two Broadway shows, made it to the top of the Empire State Building and been on a day long excursion with a double decker bus. Henry was eating it up, taking pictures of everything and posing for Ingrid's constant camera flashes.

He was a good kid, she thought with a smile. Since her return from Maine he had been supportive in a way that only a single mom understands. He had caused her no trouble as she sorted through her feelings, even putting up with her occasional fade outs from their conversations. He'd even taken her decision to end things permanently with Walsh better than she had hoped.

"There's a better guy out there," Henry said one night as she made sundaes for them. "That's what grandma says."

She looked down at her phone to check the time with a bit of a grimace, realizing she was hardly being a very fun traveling companion. Her mind was constantly pulled back to a mountain cabin with Killian, feeling his breath on her ear as he told her how beautiful she was or the soft touch of his lips when he brushed them against her knuckles. It didn't matter at all where she went, she heard his voice when the waiter with an accent took their order or saw his face in the back of the cab that had an advertisement for charter cruises. She had known better than to seek this out, but she couldn't seem to help herself when it came to thinking of him. It was as if she needed to absorb every piece of his life into her own, to add more memories to the ones she already held so dear.

Leaving him had been the single hardest thing she'd ever done. But she'd had to go; if she hadn't, she would have fallen to her knees in a weeping heap and begged him to stay - or to take her with him. Pathetic, that's what it would have been. And Killian Jones wasn't the type of man who enjoyed pathetic women. The fact was he was an independent man, smart, handsome, charming, and she was positive he had scores of women vying for his attention. She was also sure that, once he'd gotten back to Maine, she'd become a pleasant memory of time well spent. If she had let her guard down, if she had shown him that she had fallen in love with him, that time would have been tainted. She wanted him to think of her with a warm glow, not with a caustic derision that he reserved for women who couldn't let go.

But she would have him in her heart always, she told herself and Mary Margaret. He had been the man to show her what it was like to be physically worshipped, and to worship in return. When she dreamed now, she dreamed of him, of the way he'd touched her, of the way he'd made her feel. She was grateful to have that, even if she couldn't have the man himself.

Sighing quietly, she turned sad eyes to the sight of her son posing with a performance artist dressed as Lady Liberty. And despite the sounds of children squealing and people talking, she found a bit of solace in the constant barrage of waves against the pilings. Killian was right, it was peaceful by the water no matter where a person was, and the consistency of it gave way to an almost sacred feel. She could imagine him sitting on the steps much like these, angry at the world, confused and scared, asking God why life had to be so hard. Silently, she lowered herself to the top step and leaned her head against the railing. Just a few minutes, she promised herself, to take in as many details as she could, and then she would take her son and mother out for a late supper.

Her mother approached and stood in front of her, casting a shadow by blocking out the sun from her daughter's face. "You know that I never really liked Walsh," she said. "He was such a pompous ass most of the time, but I put up with it. Mom's do that kind of thing. We want our children to be happy."

"Glad you took the break up well," Emma said sarcastically, as she remembered her mother's wail that she needed to reconsider. "You've been doing that a lot lately – agreeing with me after the fact."

"You'll visit, right?" Ingrid said, sitting down beside her daughter. Her camera was still in her hands and she was scrolling through the pics she had taken that day. "When you move to Maine."

"Mom, I'm not…"

"I'm just saying that maybe you need to think about it. So he hasn't come for you. Were you expecting him to do that after you left him without even saying goodbye?" She looked toward her daughter expectantly, her facial features softening with a smile. "Emma, it's your choice. But I think it makes sense. Henry's getting older. It would be good for him to be outside of the city where he could run and play. Storybrooke isn't a bad place. And I will be able to visit with Anna and Elsa, as well as Elsa's soon to arrive baby boy."

"Mom, I'm not…I can't pack up my life and Henry's life to try to track down a guy," Emma said in her firmest voice. "What kind of mother would that make me?"

"One who wants her son to have a good life and one who knows that a happy mother is the best way to do it. It's not like Henry will be removed from everything. He'll still visit Boston to see Neal. And I have a feeling that he'll be excited about the idea of Maine. He may have told me." Ingrid winked, lifting her camera and snapping another photo of her grandson.

"You've talked to him about it?" Emma asked, appalled. "I told you this was my decision, my choice."

"It is, but you're still my daughter. I'm proud of you, you know? You're trying to be the woman you want to be. You're writing that new book that is different than anything you've written before. You are standing up to me. You ended things with Walsh for good. You told Neal how things were going to be with Henry. Even still, I'm going to have opinions. So here is my latest. When my daughter falls in love, I expect her to be the brave and strong woman I helped raise. You ran away. Now run back."

"It's complicated," Emma moaned, dropping her head to her mom's shoulder. "I probably pissed him off by doing that."

"Then apologize," her mother said simply. She pointed out in the direction of where Henry was looping his arms over the railing and watching a rather large ship make its way past the private pleasure boats that dotted the area. "Henry's young but even he can see how miserable you are, Emma. Do something to fix it."

"I should go to Maine?" Emma asked, knowing her mother's exasperated answer wouldn't exactly be news. She closed her eyes, imagining the sight of him seeing her pull her little yellow car into his driveway. "I wouldn't know what to say."

"Emma, if he's half as heartbroken as you are, then it is the only solution," Ingrid instructed carefully. "Tell him that I caught you the other night looking at housing options and some private school for Henry. Tell him that you want something more than a vacation fling. Tell him you're an idiot. I don't care what you tell him, but tell him something. Talk to him, Emma. Just talk. You'll find the words."

***AAA***

"Your brother will be late for his own wedding," Elsa complained, running a hand over her protruding stomach. "I was promised some romance and all that. So far we've got a rickety boat and a weird smell." She wrinkled her nose. "This is not the stuff of romance novels."

Mary Margaret, who though only having talked to Elsa on the phone a few times and met just a few hours earlier, laughed heartily. "Just wait," she said, bopping her finger against her son's nose. "Maybe Emma will write this scene up in one of her books later and it will be a yacht with the scent of flowers flitting through the air."

"Where is he?" Elsa whined again. She had already spent the last few weeks making sure that everything would go without a hitch. Hours had been spent on the phone with her aunt, Emma's editor, and even the harbour authority in New York to make things work. Now Killian was late, which according to a quick check of David's phone was caused by a mechanical problem on a plane leaving Maine. "Emma's not stupid. She's going to catch on soon."

"Quit complaining, love," Liam added, affectionately winking at his wife. "We've got to get this finished so my sodding brother can sail her over to the pier and sweep this lass off her feet. We're here to help, not watch."

Pouting, Elsa returned to her task of making sure that the basket they had packed for dinner was fully stocked. She wanted to hear no complaints from Killian that his plan had fallen through in any way. She wasn't sure why he wanted graham crackers, marshmallows and chocolate, but she had picked them up and repackaged them neatly. There was a bottle of wine chilling and glasses that she had picked up just a few hours before when someone realized that they only had plastic cups. Standing up straighter, she placed a fist at the stem of her lower back. "Next time we do this for Killian, remind me not to be pregnant."

Mary Margaret's husband, David, chuckled and stepped over to fold the linens and drop a lighter inside the basket for the candles. "You're doing fine. Killian should be here any moment."

Just on cue, the man in question stepped onto the dock and waved a little salute at his brother.

"You must be Killian," a warm voice said, making him turn so fast that he nearly lost his footing and toppled over. The woman in front of him was just as Emma had described her. A petite woman with dark hair and green eyes that stared at him with a warmth and genuineness that was hard to mistake. A baby was on her hip, but her right arm extended outward as she pulled him into a sort of hug that he hoped she hadn't been springing on every dark haired stranger who walked onto the dock.

"Aye," he said, pulling away as best he could. "And you're Mary Margaret?"

"Guilty," she said, readjusting her son's weight. She shook off Elsa's attempts to relieve her of the weight. "Did you have trouble?

"I worked like hell to get here after they delayed my flight and the cab driver was so busy on the phone with his credit card company that he missed the turn four times," he groused, running a tired hand over his face. "Where is she?"

"Emma isn't here," Elsa said, tilting her head as she studied her husband's brother. "You know the drill. She's headed to dinner with her mom and son." Wrinkling her nose, she stared at him harder. "You look like minced meat."

"Gee, thanks, love," he replied. "Are you about to give birth to that wee lad yet? I thought you would have by now."

"Don't get her started on the Jones men being late," Liam warned, tightening one of the mainstays. "She's given me that particular speech several times during the trip here. That and visited the loo more than should be humanly possible." He affectionately smiled at his wife. "But you know that you'll put up with any of that for a woman you love."

"It appears we will, brother," he said almost wistfully, his gaze searching the horizon as if she might suddenly appear. "So we're all set then. I just point her over there and Emma should be waiting?"

"I told you, Killian, Henry and Ingrid are in on the plan," Elsa reminded him. "Wow, you have it bad, huh?"

"Aye, in the worst way," he confessed on a sigh. "She's turned me inside out then outside in. God, I don't what I'll do if she doesn't…"

"But you know she does," Elsa said with a small smile, affectionately reaching out and squeezing his hand. "You were pretty certain of that when you called me from the cabin the other week."

"I was…I still am." He sighed. "You've seen her? She is still in New York?"

"Of course Elsa hasn't," the brunette chimed in cheerfully. "That's why we're here. If Emma saw Elsa and your brother running about, she'd know something is up. But don't worry. She is headed to dinner tonight with Henry and her mom. Henry's going to realize he left his jacket on a bench and insist on going back to get it." She sympathetically realized that he was almost shaking with nerves. "She's just scared, Killian, and people who are scared do stupid things."

"Like wait nearly a month to track down the woman they claim to love?" Elsa asked the dark haired woman.

He gave her a scathing look. "I explained that. I had work piled up, things I had to clear off my proverbial desk before I could give Emma the time she deserves. And she didn't exactly put out a welcome mat. But mostly I wanted her to have some time to herself, time to think and time to live without me. I want her to be absolutely sure that I'm what she wants, because I'm in this for the long haul. If she doesn't want forever..."

A slow smile spread across both women's faces as their eyes began to twinkle. "Well, it's about bloody time," Liam chimed in, hopping over the side of the boat to land heavily on the wooden surface of the dock. "You're in for a ride, brother."

Mary Margaret cradled the baby to her chest like saying that word might have scarred him for life. "Maybe I should have insisted she meet you years ago. Heaven knows you certainly made her newest book the hottest she's ever written."

"Aye?" he asked, one eyebrow quirking as a smug grin lifted his mouth. "Um, perhaps I can give her some more material for later use." Normally he would not have been so forward with the woman. But after their conversations over the phone, including a lengthy interview of his good and bad points, he felt like he knew the slight woman.

"Eww, okay, enough! Now we're getting into the T.M.I. territory," Elsa complained playfully.

"So is this all…" He spread his hands out. "I don't know how to thank you all for helping me."

"Our pleasure," David said, the last one to disembark from the boat. "Now go get her. I already arranged for you to have a spot to dock this beauty where you'll be able to see her come up."

Killian thought for a moment, then whirled on his heel and headed for the door. "Don't wait up for her!" he called over his shoulder as he stepped onto the deck.

Elsa let out a loud whoop as she clapped her hands together and laughed. There was no way Emma Swan was getting away from Killian. Thank God her brother-in-law had enough sense to grab the only woman who could match him for willfulness and high handedness. They could cheerfully argue for years to come, and be a happy couple for it. She couldn't wait for family dinners together.

***AAA***

Killian saw her the moment she eased through the waning crowds of tourists. A boy, Henry, was leading her, his hand gripping hers as he coaxed her on what she obviously thought was a poor plan. Voices carried on the breeze and it seemed she was telling him that the jacket was probably gone and that they would buy him another one soon. Henry broke away and ran forward as she looked skyward toward the moon for strength, her hand holding back the mane of blonde hair that was flying in the breeze. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Quietly, he made his way over to the railing of the boat, wanting to be as close to her as he could when she became aware of his presence. He didn't want her to have a chance to hide her feelings, the ones that he was sure he would see in her expressive eyes.

"Emma." He didn't want to shout her name, opting to say it just loud enough to get her attention without making it a spectacle.

She jumped at the sound of his voice, at first wondering if she had imagined it. But then she realized she could feel him, his heat a warm aura that melted her sorrow. Swallowing convulsively, she stood slowly and turned, her heart jumping as she saw him on the deck of a sailboat, stepping off it to come closer to her. It seemed like it took forever, her feet frozen.

"Killian," she whispered when he was a few steps away. "What are you doing here?"

"I just got in," he admitted, taking a step closer. "I came for you, Emma."

She stared at him, breathless and speechless, as his words echoed in the cool spring night. She was afraid to believe it, afraid to want it.

"You left me. Why?" he asked.

"I…the ice had pretty much melted and you…I had to…the deadline…" She stumbled over her words.

"I missed you," he rasped, lifting his knuckles to run them slowly down her cheek. "I woke up wanting to hold you, but you were gone."

"I didn't…" she paused, licked her lips, and looked away for a moment.

Killian caught her chin in his fingers and turned her gaze back to his. The kindness in his eyes almost undid her.

"You were as terrified as I was," he whispered, opening himself to her completely, hoping she would do the same. "There's something here, Emma, something that I've never felt before, and I'm betting you haven't either. It's bigger than both of us, larger than anything we've ever experienced. It almost feels like…"

"Like it can swallow you whole," she finished, her face falling into lines of nervous uncertainty. "It takes your breath, makes you not care if you can't breathe."

"So you feel it, too?"

She nodded, a single tear trailing down her face. He smiled gently at her, letting go of her chin to catch the salty drop on his fingertip.

"I think…I think it's…" she stammered, unable to say the word.

"Love," he supplied, then tenderly gathered her in his arms. "I love you, Emma. I just…I love you."

Her breath came out on a long shudder, her body shaking with the emotions that had been pent up for too long. "Oh, Killian, I missed you, too. I thought…I was afraid that you didn't feel the same way. I didn't think I could survive it if you rejected me, and I was positive…I mean, I thought that I couldn't be…"

"You are, Emma. God, you are," he promised, holding her tighter. "I was scared as hell that you'd laugh at me. Someone like you, so talented, so smart, so beautiful…it seemed crazy to think that you could fall for me in a few days. It seemed too crazy to think that you'd fall for me at all. But then when we made love that night, when I held you and we talked, I knew you felt the connection, too. I was going to tell you the next morning, after we'd made love again, but you weren't there."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice coated with tears. "I'm so sorry. I was afraid, and I didn't…oh, Killian. Say it again. Tell me again."

"I love you, Emma," he told her, nuzzling her hair softly. "I love you more than I ever thought I could love another person. But if you feel the same way, darling, then I need to hear it, too. I'm just a poor man with a glass ego. Tell me, Emma. Tell me, please."

She leaned back, her eyes filled with unspoken emotion and need. "I love you, Killian. I love more than I ever thought I could love."

His face lit as her features glowed with a growing smile. Slowly, he laid his mouth on hers, sealing their promises with a sweet, hope filled kiss.

"No more running away, Emma," he whispered against her lips. "I found you, and I'm not letting you go."

"I'm not going anywhere," she swore, letting her arms loop securely around his waist. "Well, maybe dinner. I sort of promised my son and mom…" She turned her head to where her mother and Henry were standing a few feet away. Henry was slightly blushing over the display, but her mother looked thrilled. Hands clapped together in front of her chest, she was beaming at her daughter. Emma was a bit surprised that her tourist happy mother wasn't snapping more pictures.

"I'm taking my grandson to dinner," Ingrid said with an emphatic nod toward the boy. "I think the two of you need some time alone. And then tomorrow we'll all have a little brunch at the hotel. I do need to get to know this man and his intentions toward my daughter. And I think Henry's been saving up a few questions of his own. So you best get prepared for the inquisition."

Henry smiled, leaning his head on Ingrid's shoulder. "I'll be good, mom," he assured. "And maybe we can take that boat ride to the Statue of Liberty tomorrow?"

Killian dropped a kiss on Emma's head before smiling at her son with a welcoming quality. "Perhaps you'd like to take a cruise about on this little girl here," he said, waving an arm back at the boat. "I'm going to have to get her back home to Maine, but I don't doubt we can find some time to take in some of the sights."

His eyes lit up at the thought. "Really? Can we, mom?"

"I think it sounds like a good idea," Emma agreed, still pressed into Killian's chest. "I've been meaning to get up to Maine."

Before much more could be said, Ingrid hurried her grandson back to the taxi stand and was busily calling her niece with an update. Emma didn't even notice as she found herself being pulled toward the boat and standing aboard. Killian dropped a soft kiss to her lips before more hungrily nipping at her. She responded enthusiastically.

He pulled away before things got too heated, sailing out of the busy slip and finding a spot to anchor not too far away that offered a view of the city. She carried the basket over to him and pushed him to sitting with a single finger against his chest. She shocked him by sitting across his thighs and burrowing into his neck.

He gave a soft chuckle, his heart expanding as he began to rock her. "So I don't know about this plan. I had thought we could sail off and enjoy a bit of dinner before heading back to the hotel. But um, well, right now all I can think about is heading below deck where I can tear your clothes off. Any objections?"

"No complaints here," she answered, her voice dreamy.

"Whatever we decide to do, I'm thinking we should stay near the water. Your son seems to like it and I wouldn't mind a sailing partner. I wanted…well, I guess I wanted a place for us. And all I could think about when planning to surprise you was finding us a place that wasn't yours or mine, but ours."

"What are you talking about?" she questioned, leaning back to study him curiously.

"I'm doing this badly," he muttered, closing his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. "Oh, well, I guess I've already started this conversation. I know this might be too soon for you, and if it is, that's fine, I can move to Boston or travel there on the weekends to see you - "

"Killian, what are you trying to ask me?" she prodded the fingers of her left hand trailing down his cheek to the stubble of his jaw.

"It's just that I thought…I want us to be together, Emma. These past few weeks, it's been too hard. I love you, and I want to have a life with you. I didn't think it was fair to ask you to move your whole life just to accommodate me, and I didn't know how comfortable you would be sharing your apartment in Boston. So I thought that, maybe, if you're willing, we could start over together. I know it's fast, my love."

"Where? Storybrooke?"

"It was a bloody stupid idea," he mumbled. "It's okay, Emma, I understand. Your life is in Boston, you have your friends there, your mother, Henry's life, and - "

"It's perfect," she interrupted him, her face beaming. "Killian, I can write anywhere, and I've been considering a new school for Henry, from what Elsa and Anna tell me they are pretty great in Storybrooke, so I think I'm willing to try a town I've never lived in. I'll have to talk to Henry of course, but as long as you're with me, I'll be happy."

Grinning, he claimed her mouth again, this time giving her a deeper, more heated kiss as the moon shown down on them. His hands skimmed gently over her back to cup her bottom, pulling her flush against him. He heard her groan, felt her body tremble and knew that her passion was kindling as quickly as his. Before he could suggest taking things more private, her phone chirped an annoying tone.

It took her a moment to realize what the noise was. When she did, she let out a loud sigh and shook her head. "Mary Margaret," she said, biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing at his expression.

"She won't leave us alone until we tell her what happened," he complained irritably. "I suppose we should call her back and put her out of her misery."

"But just long enough to tell her what we've decided; then I think we should go down below and, um, finish our discussion," Emma said with a sensual smile. "I was promised that my clothes will be ripped off my body."

Humming appreciatively, he lifted one eyebrow and gave her a lopsided grin. "I like how you think, Swan. It's just one of the reasons I love you."

"And I love you, too, Killian," she replied, running one fingernail across his jaw. "I love you, too."

 ** _The End_**


End file.
